


When You Come Undone (who do you need? who do you love?)

by ceekaygee (orangetulips25)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, FF: orangetulips, LJ: orangetulips25, tumblr: gleekalyze, wycu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3372302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangetulips25/pseuds/ceekaygee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shouldn't everyone know, shouldn't the world be reacting right now, stop turning on its axis or some crap, reacting to the fact that this person, his mother, his mom, is not here anymore?" In which a tragedy in Puck's life forces the questions of needs, wants, shoulds, coulds, and didn'ts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

Dude, his life? Is AWE. SOME. He finally got shit dialed in and is in a direction towards….well, towards something other than screw-up. He is a certified, motherfucking Airman First Class and he is totally making technical training his bitch right now. And what's more is that he LIKES his training classes. All these airplanes to dissect and take apart and put back together - it's like how he used to screw around with cars, only way cooler. It's all Danger Zone Top Gun up in this piece.

Plus, he's finally got the girl. Noah Puckerman has been pursuing Quinn Fabray like, forever. Well, maybe not when she was crazypants Quinn with that pink hair. Oh, and he wasn't really into her when she was all, "let's get Child Protective Services after Shelby!" But, damn, he's been faithful to her - Texas and Connecticut aren't exactly neighbors, and now that Q's in Amsterdam on some study abroad shit, it's even harder, but, whatever, Skype and some (ok, like, ONCE, but he's working on that) phone sex do the trick (mostly). She had been his reward, his goal, since he first set eyes on her in that hott-with-an-extra-t Cheerio uniform freshman year. Noah Puckerman is pretty bomb at entertaining nights, sometimes weeks, with a girl, but this long term relationship thing? Hell yeah, you bet he's rocking that too.

Life's pretty fucking damn good.

And then.

The phone rings.

 

* * *

 

It all happened so fast, but at the same time, he felt like he was moving in slow motion.

He doesn't remember calling his Senior Airman. He doesn't remember the words that tumbled out of his mouth, "blood clot," "heart attack." He doesn't remember how many days leave he got, or packing his bag, or getting on the plane, or landing in Lima.

He doesn't remember his 18 year old sister, Becca, her eyes red rimmed, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, picking him up in his mom's SUV from the airport.

He doesn't remember walking up the front path, past the zinnias and geraniums and that one bush that always just grew crazy out of control.

He doesn't remember walking into his house, his familiar house, with the pencil marks in the doorway from charting his and Bec's heights, and the loose wood plank on the floor that always, always creaked, especially at 2am when he was sneaking home.

He does remember sinking onto the couch, that orange and red plaid monstrosity of a couch. He remembers running his fingers over the burn mark where he once put out a cigarette before his mom caught him.

He remembers his head dropping onto a throw pillow that still smelled like her, generic antibacterial lotion mixed in with vanilla.

He remembers wondering how long that smell will last. Before it's gone.

He doesn't remember ever hurting this badly.

 

* * *

 

Somehow he made it up to his bedroom. His untouched bedroom. It looked exactly the same as the day he had left for basic training. The consistency of it comforted and crushed him all at the same time.

He didn't call Quinn right away. He didn't call anyone, really, except his supervisor on base, and that was the first, and only, call he made after hanging up the phone with Becca before he had left Texas for Lima.

Bec said she had called Nana Connie. Jesus. Nana Connie didn't even know. Isn't that, like, a mom thing? Don't you get some spidey sense or something when your kid is gonna die? She found out on the phone. Just like he did. Shit. Do people know? Who else knows? Shouldn't everyone know, shouldn't the world be reacting right now, stop turning on its axis or some crap, reacting to the fact that this person, his mother, his mom, is not here anymore?

What's the fucking protocol for this shit? Does  _he_  have to call people? What the fuck, he has to keep repeating those horrible, bitter, words? Who would he even call? Does he go down a list? Do people make lists of who to call when they die? Like when there's a snow day and the teachers call each other (funny, the things your brain goes to).

He opens his mouth to holler, "Ma," and ask her.

Shit.

Ma's not there.

Shit. Shit. He…

He feels the red rush into his eyes again and the room spin.

His mom. His ma.

He scrubs his hand over his face for the fiftieth time in the last hour, trying to get his bearings. Becca appears in the frame of his open door, chewing her lip, looking anywhere but at her brother.

"Do I have to, like, call people or something?" he asked.

"No...Nana Connie started calling the relatives, and then all these people from synagogue, and then the phone started ringing and I just stopped answering."

Becca sat down on the bed next to him.

"I didn't want to hear it. All these people calling to say they were sorry and stuff. I don't care, it doesn't bring her back." Her voice trailed off, her face crumpled, and all he could do was put his arm around her.

He doesn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know how to comfort himself.

 

* * *

 

He didn't sleep. Well, maybe he did, his digital clock did change from the last time he looked at it. His mouth had that stale morning taste, but the night had felt wildly unproductive, like he just zombied out.

The old school clock on his nightstand read 5:37am (it still worked? When he left , the batteries were dead... Oh. Ma must have).

He quickly figured that it was around noon in Amsterdam, and he knew Quinn would probably be in class. She's not gonna answer the phone, That's fine. Plus, he can't do it. He just can't say the words again. He knows he has to. But...no. Not yet.

Maybe a text is cold, but, whatthefuckever. His life is pretty cold right about now.

_Q. I'm in Lima. My mom died._

He didn't expect her to answer right away. His girl focuses on her studies there, almost to a fault. Like, he gets it, make something of yourself and shit but, damn, if  _she_  sexted  _him_  in the middle of a class? You can damn well bet that he'd answer.

If only this was that kind of text.

His phone rang a few minutes later. "Oh Puck. Oh Puck, oh my God, I'm so sorry. Oh, Puck." The purr of her voice gave him some comfort, and he could hear the bubble in her throat and the echo of the hallway. "Puck….what happened?"

"She collapsed at work. They originally thought heart attack, but it turns out she had a blood clot. I….I didn't even…" His voice trailed off. "Quinn. I...I nee..." He paused. "Can you come home?"

He didn't exactly hear the words she was saying on the other line; they all blurred one into another. He heard her sniffling, then something about logistics and flights and homework and shit….he focused long enough on the, "Love you," at the end to respond accordingly, and hung up.

He rolled over and tried to find sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he opened his eyes again, the sun was fully up. He heard Becca and, Nana Connie probably, moving around downstairs. He rolled over onto his back, cupped his hands behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling for who knows how long. The front door downstairs echoed with a mantra of  _opencloseopencloseopenclose_  and he knew enough from when his uncle died that people he didn't even know were bringing food he didn't like and wouldn't eat.

His cell was laying on the floor next to the bed, buzzing with texts and missed calls and who the fuck cares. Now that it was regular daytime, he knows the world will be reacting. At least, his world will be. Whatever his world is.

Nana Connie came and sat on the edge of his bed, cooing and clucking over him, as if it was just ( _just._  Fuck.) his mom that had died, and not her daughter, too.

That's his Nana. And that's his mom, too. She is always concerned with everyone else first.

Was. Was concerned.

Nana Connie is talking about services, burial, but, like Quinn's words, it all melts into one, and he blankly nods and just goes along with what she says.

 

* * *

 

"Puck, I want to be there, I swear I do, I just can't get there right now. Not for the burial at least. I mean, I thought I had some time, like, with Catholic services we get a few days before the actual funeral, and the visitation...like, with Finn's and... but….I can't…and the flights, not till tomorrow, and I'm in the middle of midterms..."

He's not mad at her. He's not.

Or maybe he is. Whatthefuckever. It's not like he can even feel anything right now anyway.

"Yeah. S'ok. I got you." He replies. There's no anger in his voice.

"Puck, oh God, I will do my best to get there as soon as I can, I promise." Her voice is quiet. "I'll be there. And...call me? I'm here."

"Yup."

"Love you?"

"Yup."

He's decided. He's mad.

It's easier to be mad.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a sun shining, cold day at the cemetery, and Puck is grateful for the chance to wear his sunglasses, and not just to shield his eyes from the reflection off of the February snow.

His brother-from-another-mother (literally), Jake, is there, and Jake's ma, and then some aunts and uncles he's used to, but the bulk are the "true blue Jew crew" from his synagogue and the old  _yentas_  that get off on grief. He just stays close to Becca and tries to be stoic or some shit, when all he really wants to do is swim to the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels. He's ignored his liquor so far, but it's not going to be much longer till he reacquaints himself with it. When Finn died, he kept himself more than half-drunk for two straight weeks. It was kind of an accomplishment, that, if not for the circumstances, he'd be damn proud of.

He wants to be strong for Becca, for Nana Connie, because that's what his mom would have wanted. He's standing, ramrod straight, in his USAF uniform, hands clasped in front of him. Soldier himself, steel himself, with Bec to his left, Nana Connie holding her up as she silently shakes with tears.

He won't let himself cry in front of all these relatives. Fucking jackass strangers. Where were they when his ma was alive? Shit. Where was  _he_ when his ma was alive?

He feels like a grade-A asshole, because he honestly can't remember the last time he ever thanked his mom for anything. She stood by him and bailed him out, literally and figuratively, so many fucking times and he doesn't think he ever really thanked her. And now he fucking  _can't,_  and he should have at least called her more when he was on base, and when was the last time he actually talked to her? Damn, he hasn't called her in, like, three weeks, and the last time they talked, he told her to can the shit talk about his dating life and no, he's not marrying a Jew, or a Gentile, or anyone for that matter, so shut it, ma.

Crap. He is an awful son. Was an awful son? Shit. Was.

Nope, not gonna cry. Nope. Hold it in, Puckerman, be a man.

He remembers Finn's funeral. Fuck, that was heartbreaking too. And Puck's not a heart breaking kind of person; he breaks the hearts, he doesn't get broken.

He didn't cry at that funeral. At least, not in front of anyone. (He also didn't steal the damn letterman jacket, and yes, he's still pissed that everyone thought he did). Jack. Thank God for all that Jack.

Finn. And now his mom. Jesus. Shit.

Come on, don't be a pussy, Puckerman. Don't cry in front of these people. Puck sets his jaw and squeezes his hands in fists at his side, fists so tight he feels the pulse pounding in his thumbs.

The rabbi is reciting the final prayers when he feels a hand brush against his, working its way in to unclench his fingers.

"Noah." It's Rachel. He hadn't noticed her there, but then again, he hadn't noticed much. "Noah." She whispers again. Her thumb gently sways back and forth over his knuckle, her fingers intertwine with his.

Her gesture is enough to get him to grip her hand back (maybe a  _little_  bit tighter than a guy with a girlfriend should…) and he allows a tear to roll silently down his cheek as the dirt hits his mom's casket.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, Nana Connie made the declaration that they will sit shiva for only 3 days. All these people in and out of his house, all this, "Oh I am so sorry, young man," and "at least she didn't suffer," and, "she was so proud of you," and just, everyone needs to shut the fuck up and leave him the hell alone.

He's still reeling from the burial and just wants to, seriously, just go to his room and  _drink_ already, but everywhere he turns, people are jockeying for his attention and trying to comfort him with useless words.

He grabs a bagel from the kitchen and manages to escape a potentially 10-minute diatribe of his Aunt Louisa repeating, "oh you poor kids," over and over again.

He's done crying. Now it's time to get shitty blackout drunk for the next seven days before he goes back to base.

He closes his bedroom door and sighs with relief upon wrapping his fingers around the bottle, his good buddy Jack's neck. God bless us motherfuckers, everyone.

And of course, the minute the rim of that bottle hits his lips, his door opens, and fuck the lack of a lock on his door.

"Hi, Noah." Rachel is like some ninja ghost or some shit, with how she just randomly appears places. She sits down on the floor next to him, leaning against the bottom of his bedframe and smooths out her (ridiculously short for a funeral, but, hel- _lo_ ) navy blue skirt. "I'm not going to ask how you are."

"Good," he snaps. Probably a little too tightly.

"I see the bottle of whiskey in your hands and please, be aware that if you would like to imbibe in my presence, while I don't normally condone alcohol as a coping mechanism, I can certainly excuse this given the circumstances."

"Gee, thanks for your  _permission._ "

She actually folds her hands and watches him. This might be worse than the crazy aunts downstairs. Is she, like, waiting for him to drink? Is she gonna watch him?

Well, whatever, Noah Puckerman doesn't need an engraved invitation for whiskey. He slugs down his first gulp.

"When did you get here? Aren't you, like, in New York or something? Classes and shit?" He asks, punctuating his question with another gulp. "Fucking  _midterms_?" He spits the words out.

They're not really meant for her.

So, ok, yeah, he's still mad.

"My dad called me yesterday with…" She hesitates. "...the news. I skipped classes and got the first flight out of JFK this morning. I needed to be here." She nods, decisively (she's Rachel Berry, yeah?). "I  _wanted_  to be here." Her lashes drop and her next words come out in a rush. "Noah, I know everyone will be saying how sorry they are, and I just wanted you to know -"

"Yeah, whatever," He cuts her off. Gulp. "You and everyone else and just, whatever. Fucking contest to see how many sorries I can get. Few more days and I'm goin' back."

She replied quietly. " _I_  wasn't going to say I'm sorry."

He shrugs. This one burns going down his throat. It's easier to be mean. To be cutting. To be rude and crass and it's just so much.

Easier.

"So you're not? You're not  _sorry_  that my mom fucking died? You're not  _sorry_  that I was a complete dick to her the last time I talked to her? You're not  _sorry_  that, fuck, who knows where Becca's gonna live when she's home from college? You're not  _sorry_  that my own fucking girlfriend -"

He's interrupted by surprise and shock when Rachel suddenly grabs the bottle of whiskey out of his hands and takes a long…..damn,  _long_  drink from it, and slaps it back onto the carpeted floor.

Like, an, "at-least-two-shots-worth" sized drink. An, "I'm-the-size-of-a-small-puppy-but-can-drink-like-a-trucker", sized drink.

Well then. She's staring at him, defiantly, eyebrows raised, and a hint of a….challenge in her eyes.

Huh. So this is what his mom's shiva is gonna be like.

 

* * *

 

They've had these silences before, where it's just actions, no words. Rachel has the ability to talk the ear off of a rock, but with Puck, it's never...filling airspace. She doesn't feel the need to puncture with babbling words. She can just exist and he can just exist and the give and take, push and pull, of whatever their friendship-that's-not-friendship is, just….exists comfortably.

The bottle passes back and forth between the two of them, the minutes passing. The dull murmur of indistinguishable voices downstairs, the same cadence of  _opencloseopencloseopenclose_  of the door, provides a backdrop, a soundtrack for this...this. Whatever this is, whatever it's ever been, when they interact.

Rachel doesn't ask where Quinn is. She knows from the Glee Facebook group she manages that Quinn is abroad. She's amazed, though, that she didn't make it back here to support her boyfriend but….well, the Puck/Quinn relationship has never been conventional to begin with, either. He has that effect on girls, she supposes.

She can't assume to know exactly what Noah is going through. She can't imagine losing a parent. She's been through her share of loss and grief, and she knows how Noah handles (or, doesn't handle) his emotions.

When Finn died, she found little comfort in the sentences that everyone placated her with. Words don't help. Ever. Words reopen wounds, words pour salt on wounds, words remind you that he is not here, he will not be here, ever again. She found little comfort in the, "No, but, how  _are_  you?" and those pitying looks. Pity is unproductive. People want you to talk to them, to pour your heart out to them, on the subway or in a restaurant, or when they bump into you at a coffee shop. They all mean well, she knows this, but really? She's not going to cry her eyelashes off about her dead ex-boyfriend in the middle of The Lima Bean. Especially not to a stranger. She'd really wanted to pull a play from the Noah Puckerman handbook and tell them all exactly where they could go. Fuck them and their pity. They didn't know her.

No one would leave her alone. But at the same time, she didn't want to be alone, she just wanted to be left alone. Why didn't anyone seem to get that? She suspects, sitting here on his dingy brown carpet, maybe Noah gets it.

Unfortunately.

She doesn't expect him to open up to her. But she does know he can, and will, shut down. She just wants him to know she's here, to help bridge that medium place, between pouring your heart out and shuttering your heart up. And if that means sitting and drinking with him, well, hand her the bottle.

Except...well...she can't really keep up with his pace. She's trying, though, and she's holding her own...kind of. But if this is what he needs, she understands.

Rachel understands grief.

 

* * *

 

The Jack is half done, Puck's eyes are bloodshot, and they've spent the last hour laughing over choir room memories. He's teasing her, she's rolling along with it, feigning her overly dramatic, typical Rachel Berry indignance. It's refreshing to laugh, to forget momentarily, why Rachel is here and why he's on his way into a drunken blackout.

"Omigod, and Night of Neglect?! When Mercedes wanted all those puppies!" Rachel was gasping with laughter.

"Oh Goooooooood…" Puck moaned. "I had to jimmy the lock to the pet store and then one shit in my truck, the little bastard."

"Ahaha, a shot for a….a shit!" Rachel spit the words out and started laughing hysterically, pushing the rapidly emptying bottle at him. Oh, damn, Berry was drunk if she's cursing. Then again, he wasn't exactly sober as a nun. He was flying pretty high.

And her eyes are just stupid sparkly and whenever she starts on a string of her (fucking cute as fuck, wait,  _what_?) drunken giggles, she grabs his bicep or his wrist, and he definitely doesn't  _not_  like being touched by Rachel Berry.

It's refreshing. It's refreshing to not acknowledge and entertain pity, or think about futures, futures missing integral parts. Just pasts, when everyone was ok and alive and it's just so fucking  _refreshing_  and he doesn't want to stop and just everything and nothing all at once and not thinking and the world is swimming in front of him but Rachel, Rachel is still, and smiling and not swimming or moving or swaying or thinking, he's not thinking, not thinking.

Definitely not thinking.

And definitely drinking, and drinking, and she keeps drinking and he sure as fuck is going to keep drinking, and he's certainly not thinking when he grabs Rachel's face, in the middle of a stretch of those giggles (fuck, so cute) and just starts kissing her.

And then for the first time since he got the call from Becca, nothing is spinning, nothing is floating, and it's just NoahandRachel and that's fine and he's not thinking he's kissing he's kissing he's kissing.

And she's certainly not thinking either when she wraps her arms around his neck, and pulls herself into his lap. His hands are in her hair and her whispery gasps are in his mouth and he can't won't don't ever stop kissing.

And, oh God, his mouth moves to her neck and he nibbles her ear, her eyes are closed, she moans breathily, and ohGodohGodohGod and his nose is nuzzling against the edge of her hair and pleaseNoahpleaseNoahpleasepleaseplease.

And, fuck. FUCK. He's making out with Rachel Berry, at a shiva for his MOM, and, fuck, and Finn and his MOM, and Quinn, and,  _NO_ , he does not want to stop.

Cause it's so much easier. So, so, so much easier.

 

* * *

 

He tastes like whiskey and salt and just...he tastes and smells like comfort and safety and warmth and Noah. She remembers it all these years later, the last time she kissed him was, what, 4 years ago? But still, so easy and just so….Noah.

Her mind is fuzzy, so fuzzy, from all the drinking she had to do to keep up with him. Grief has no rules. Grief has no pie charts and pro/con lists and, she knows this is bad, so, so bad. There's Quinn, and there was Finn, but then his hand cups her behind and, oh, oh my, it's so, sooooo good.

It's no secret that it's been a damn while since she had any sort of male interaction. And what a reintroduction into that world she is getting. Noah has always been good, mind blowing, amazing, at his "craft."

Her logical mind keeps screaming at her to stopstop _stop_. She has every reason in the world to stop.

But Rachel's pretty unhappy with her life right now, the monotonous acquiescence that her life has adopted. So, this whole making out thing? She's just going to  _gogogo._

Cause it's so much easier. So, so, so much easier.

 

* * *

 

Of course his phone rings. Of motherfucking course his cell phone starts blaring and jolts both of them out of the spell they were in and Rachel leaps off of his lap and, grief stricken or not, Puck was about to go under the shirt to the promised land of Berry boobs and fuck that noise.

Of course it's Quinn.

Well, fuck. Stone cold sober, now, that's for sure.

He lets it ring out and vibrate its way across the floor.

"So. I, um, I probably should go." She whispers it, and then bumps into the side of his dresser as she's attempting for a quick getaway.

"You're still drunk, Rachel." It's a label, a reminder, a veiled plea to get her to stay.

"My dad's downstairs; I didn't drive here."

She scoots out of his bedroom, refusing to meet his eyes.

 

* * *

 

A few (painful, in more ways than one) hours later, he's sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of baked ziti absentmindedly and scrolling on his phone. The shiva for the day is finished, everyone gone, so he's flipping through texts to see if any were worth a response. Just a metric fuck-ton of, "I'm sorry man" and "Gonna try to make it later this week" and, whatever. Sorry is lame.

Becca slides into the chair across from him and cuts right to the chase (in typical Puckerman fashion). "Where was Quinn today? You guys break up?"

Puck doesn't lift his eyes from his phone. "You know she's away. She couldn't get here." (Well, her voicemail from earlier said she was gonna be on a flight tomorrow afternoon but, whatever, he doesn't care and yeah, he's still mad and no, he didn't call her back because he's still thinking of his handful of Rachel Berry ass and so-close-to-tits from earlier).

He doesn't have to look up at her to know that Bec's eyes are rolling. "Your eyeballs are gonna get stuck in the back of your head like that, and I am going to laugh my ass off at you."

"She's your  _girlfriend,_ Puck. What the hell?" Just like his mother, Becca was not Quinn Fabray's biggest fan. "I know she's far away but  _Jesus_."

"And Jesus ain't here either, Bec. So shut up."

"I'm just sayin." She raised her hands in surrender. "Rachel Berry was here for a pre-tty long time."

Puck still didn't break his gaze on his phone screen. "Yup."

"None of your other friends came today."

That got his attention. "So they'll come tomorrow! Fuck, Becca!" He threw his phone down. "What the hell?"

Again, hands raised. "I'm just. Sayin." Fucking teenagers, man.

"God, Bec, you can be such a bitch, you know that?" He shoved away from the table and stomped off upstairs.

Shitty thing was, yeah, she was a bitch, but she was also right and that  _sucked_.

 

* * *

 

"So how long do you think you'll be home for, babydoll?" LeRoy pushed a cup of tea across the table to Rachel.

She pulled her hoodie over her shoulders as she sat at the table. "Thanks, Daddy. I don't want to intrude on you for too long." She stirred her mug. "I know your new  
place is...small."

"Now, baby, you will have a room, and a home, wherever I, or your father, live. Always."

"I know. Thanks."

"Did you get to spend some time with Noah tonight? He must be devastated. I didn't seem him for awhile at shiva."

"Yes. He's….he's...ok, I guess." She felt an involuntary blush creep up her cheeks with the memory of his hands in her hair...on her back...

"Is he still with that Quinn girl? I didn't see her today."

It bothers her that Quinn wasn't there. It shouldn't bother her, but, you know what, yes. It does. She shrugs silently.

Thumbs stroking her cheek, oh God. Fingertips trailing under the hem of her sweater.

"You're a good friend to him, sweetheart. He's lucky to have you."

She just nods as her father goes to put his mug in the sink. "Good night, Rachel, sweet dreams."

Rachel's left sitting at the table, staring into her now cold mug of untouched tea.

Lips on her neck, tongue flicking her earlobe, arms, oh his lovely, lovely arms, holding her so tight, his hands trailing down, down...

Oh God.

 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't need her. Puck doesn't need anything. Or anyone.

The steam from the running water weaves around them, and his fingers extend into her damp hair, his knuckles rapping against the cold tile of the back shower wall. One arm around her waist, his fingertips graze her hip, and he cups a handful of her perfect tight ass, moaning into her mouth. His tongue trails down, her jaw, her neck, his nose nuzzles the valley in between her breasts, and he laps up the tang of her skin as it mixes with the hot water.

She moans breathily as his tongue circles around her pert nipple. She grabs a handful of his hair and  _puuuulllls,_ so he adds teeth and tongue and nibbles and sucks, and  _fuck_ , he will never tire of that voice, her moan, and he pretty much needs it echoing in his ears for the rest of his motherfucking life.

"Noahhhhh," she pleads again, so his free hand moves to dip in between her legs. So good, so fucking good and wet and perfect and she wraps one leg around his waist and he hoists her up and she curls herself around him, just as he curls his finger inside of her, twisting, feeling every bit of her as he moves in deeper and -

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

Wait, what? What? The fuck?

Where is he?

Bed, no shower.

Alone. Dammit, alone.

Hands empty, and his dick? Shit, man, sporting one HELL of a morning wood.

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

Seriously, what the actual fuck, where's the shower? Where's Ra -

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

JESUS CHRIST PHONE. It vibrates itself pointedly to the edge of his bedside table. Puck presses the silence button and hurls it across the room. His hands wipe over his face as he tries to orient, the sun streaming piecemeal through the navy curtains on his window, the stillness of the air in the room, the silence…

The insanely painful bulge in his boxers.

Damn. Fucking dream of a dream. Like…. _fuck_. Seriously, that was so real, he could legit taste her (or, at least, what he assumes she tastes like, and damn, so good). Vivid motherfucker of a dream. Shit.

He was totally about to get Rachel Berry off. Rachel fucking  _Berry_. Damn. He hasn't had a Berry sex dream since, like...senior year of high school?

Ok, so  _maybe_  he has them every now and then and  _maybe_  he thinks about her ass in those little skirts sometimes when he's taking care of his business and fuck you, he doesn't exactly picture her when he's with Quinn so shut up (ok, so it happened like, once. Maybe twice) but it's not cheating so like he said. Fuck you.

_RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG_

AGAIN?!

Ready to give whoever on the other line a piece of his mind (cause, seriously? First the dream interruption and now he has to actually move and get UP), "WHAT!" He hollers into the phone.

"Puck?"

Shit. Oh, shit, it's Quinn.

Quinn his girlfriend.

His girlfriend who couldn't bear to tear herself away from her school to be there when he needed her.

Fuck no. He didn't  _need_  her. Puck doesn't need anything. Or anyone.

Well, he could  _need_  that shower scene. He  _is_  Noah Puckerman.

"Puck? Are….are you there?"

Oh, right. Quinn.

"Hey. Yeah, hey, I'm here." He yawned and shoved his thumb into his left eye. "Was just...sleeping." He plopped back down on his bed and attempted to wipe the sleep (and,  _mmmm,_  Rachel tits) from his eyes.

"Well, I'm home, in Lima, I landed late last night but I didn't want to call you." (probably a good move cause, you know, Rachel tits). "I'm at my mom's. Can I come over?"

"What? I mean, yeah." He's still thinking about Berry moans and Berry mouth and Berry ass and... "I - lemme get in the shower first."

Mmm. Shower.

He is possibly  _not_  thinking of Quinn (Quinn. His girlfriend) while he's in the shower with his hand wrapped around his dick.

But, again, that kinda thing only happens every now and then. And seriously. That  _dream_.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Rachel sits in her car, chewing her lip. She's parked a few cars away from the Puckerman house.

It's awkward. This is awkward.

As she tried fervently (and, eventually, fruitlessly) to fall asleep last night, she kept replaying the make out session from yesterday's shiva, like a record on repeat.

She could not stop the tingles throughout her body when she thought of all the places Noah's hands went (and all the places she, oh  _God,_  all the places she  _wanted_  them to go). She can't get it out of her mind, and, consequently, she can't let anything  _in_ to her mind, because all that's floating around in there...lips and arms and hands and -

Deep breath.

 _I should go into the house_ , she thought.

She pulls her hand off of the car door handle and feels the full body flush creep back up , through her legs, belly, arms, even the tips of her hair are ablaze right now.  _No. No, I should go right home and take a cold shower._

 _Right, Rach_ , she scoffed to herself.  _A lot of good a shower did you last night._  In fact, the shower only made it worse, because then her mind started on the steam from the shower, which fueled whatever was curling up in her abdomen, and her hand involuntarily moved down and then she was thinking about showering with Noah and -

_RACHEL BARBRA BERRY YOU STOP THIS INSTANT. Since when are you this wanton sex-crazed woman, lusting after Noah Puckerman?!_

_Tenth grade._

Ugh, she can't even fool her inner monologue.

 _You're supposed to be grieving, Rachel._ She scolded herself.  _Your sole purpose here is to be a good, reliable friend to Noah. You are here to help him through this crisis, to pay your respects to him and his family and this dreadful loss, supporting him however necessary._

_However necessary, Rachel? Really? Going to support him right out of his pants, are you?_

_No._

_Rachel. Puck has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who's_ _not you_ _, and this is so bad, you need to stop thinking about this, you need to stop wanting this, Rachel._

Ok. This is fine. She's an actress. She can go in there and put on her regular Rachel Berry face and performance, and maybe pull Noah aside later on and they can discuss what went on yesterday.  _And he will reiterate what I know is true; it was a one time thing and my mind is working overtime because, maybe I'm a little sexually deprived lately, but who isn't right?_ She nods emphatically to punctuate her thoughts.

_I mean, it's entirely plausible that my hormones are raging because I haven't been with someone for at least a year, and I'm pretty sure if I continued that internet research I began at approximately 2am last night on said topic, it will corroborate my hypothesis that a large percentage of the female population in my age bracket aren't receiving adequate lovemaking to suit their needs._

Rachel sighs miserably.

_Except Quinn. Quinn probably is completely and totally sexually satisfied. All sexed up on the regular. Lucky duck._

But really, hopefully a logical, mature conversation with Noah will put an end to these  _ridiculous_  feelings she is having, but then again maybe he will wrap his arms around her and -

_RACHEL._

_Right. Right. Time to go inside. This is a shiva, Rachel. A solemn event, not a social event, not an opportunity to quell any sort of (insane, unfounded, utterly absurd) sexual desires._ She opened her car door and hoped that the blast of frigid February air would cool her off, because right now? She is positively on fire head to toe.

 _Normalnormalnormalnormal._  She chanted in her head with every step closer to the front door.

 _It was nothing, just a drunken hookup, a mistake, compounded by grief, and it didn't mean anything and it won't happen again_.  _A. Mistake._

And she does not want it to happen again, and -

_Oh God, yes I do, I do so much._

"Oh, Rachel! Hi!" The door flies open and there's Quinn on the other side.

Quinn, Noah's girlfriend ( _girlfriend_ ), pulled her into a hug.

Quinn,  _Puck's_ girlfriend. Quinn's words melt together, penetrating Rachel's ears in indistinguishable white noise. She gingerly returns the embrace, discretely peering over Quinn's shoulder. She spots Noah across the room, not in his dress blues, but in a simple button down shirt and tie, sitting on the couch alone. He raises his arm to stretch and yawn as he scratches the back of his neck, and just the mere sight of his arms, muscular biceps bulging out of the rolled up shirt sleeves, his strong, capable, hands, long, dexterous fingers, and she's...she's absolutely...

Rachel usually doesn't allow herself to use such vulgar language but this situation definitely calls for it.

She's fucked.

 

* * *

 

It's kind of screwed up that Quinn is here. Ok, she  _is_ his girlfriend.

And why does he have to keep reminding himself of that?

But, ok, he's glad she was able to tear herself away from school (he's not mad. He's  _not_ ). But this whole situation is just...weird. Becca has been shooting daggers with her eyes at Quinn the whole time (like, more than usual even), and Quinn is ignoring it, so at least that's good that he doesn't have to play Judge Judy here, but it's like...she's just too... _cordial_  and hostess-y shit with his family to really be at a shiva. She's going up to everyone introducing herself, and a lot of these relatives she's never met (cause, really, he's not bringing home anyone to his extended family like, ever) and seriously, his mom fucking -

No. He's not going to think about it. After his shower this morning (and, hot damn, what a shower it was), he found Becca sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his ma's purse and crying. And then he got this huge ass lump in his throat while trying to calm her down for, like, 20 minutes, and then Quinn walked into the house and Bec turned her tears off like a fucking light switch and changed into demon sister, stomping upstairs, slamming her bedroom door.

So then he spent the next 20 minutes listening to Quinn psychoanalyze Bec's behavior and talk about some stages of grief crap, mixed in with these pleas of " talk to me Noah, tell me how you feel, don't shut down," and he just sat with his head in his hands. Then she started on with this useless "I am so sorry," and those stupid placeholder shit words everyone else uses and he just wanted everyone and everything to just go away.

He's just so impatient, you know? Like, he hates that his ma's not here, he hates that he's feeling so fucking shitty sad, and he hates everyone looking at him with those stupid big eyes because it just reminds him that his ma's. Not.  _Here_.

But worse than those eyes and all the sorries? Is pretending nothing is different. Because it  _is_  all kinds of fucked up different and there are all these unanswered questions and shit he's got to figure out and it kind of sucks to see people smiling and being all chatty shit because he doesn't want to smile ever again, or at least, not today.

He remembers this word from English class in high school (whatever, Ms. Smith had huge knockers and they got hard nipples every now and then and that shit is worth paying attention for so shut up). Paradox. When two things are opposites but coexist. His fucking life is a paradox.

But seriously though? Shiva's not a social event.

It's also not an occasion to hook up with your dead best friend's ex girlfriend, but. Whatever.

 

* * *

 

Luckily for Rachel, distractions made themselves known when she walked into the Puckerman living room. Some of their old Glee club members had stopped in - Kurt and Blaine, Mr. Schue, Sam. So while it felt a little bizarre to reunite with old friends at a solemn event, at least it kept her mind occupied. And it's not like she was laughing and joking with the Gleeks. She was just….catching up.

Truth be told, she couldn't keep her focus entirely on the conversations in front of her. Her attention kept straying back to Noah. He was following Quinn around with this look on his face as she went up to different guests. Quinn seemed to have this routine, Rachel observed. First she'd introduce herself as Puck's girlfriend (and, Rachel had noticed, more than a few of the guests reacted surprised to that sentiment). Then Quinn would cock her head to the side, she'd touch the shoulder or arm of whomever she was talking to, and give them these big sad eyes. Every now and then Rachel would catch a few snippets of, "so sorry," and "denial", and "grieving."

 _At least she's being supportive_ , thought Rachel.  _Or, trying_.

When Finn died, she got all the same well intentioned speeches and words and, for her, they really didn't help. People get weird about death. They need to say something, not really to make you feel better, but to make  _themselves_  feel better about trying to make you feel better. But words? Well, when someone you love dies, words do little.

 _But that was Finn_ , Rachel continued her musing.  _And that was me. And it was such a bizarre situation, it was inevitable that people would have gotten awkward around the deceased ex fiancee/ex girlfriend, ex whatever I was. S_ o maybe she took their responses and reactions at Finn's wake a little too seriously _. And after all, surely Quinn knows Puck better than anyone else so she must have an idea of what will help him, and maybe by her being this, ambassador, of sorts, that will help._

"Rachel? Hey, Rach?" Kurt was waving his hand in front of her face. "You there?"

She realized everyone was looking to her for some sort of response.

Oops.

"Right. Um," she floundered. "What?"

 _Some actress, Rach_. She thought.  _Way to bring your A game._

 

* * *

 

It was getting dark out and the group at Puck's house was thinning. The Glee clubbers had left, and Rachel was helping Becca clean up, while Quinn was perched on the arm of the chair Puck was sitting in, her fingers intertwined with his.

Rachel's not jealous.

She  _not._

It's just that those fingers were in  _her_  hair a little less than 24 hours ago, and maybe she feels guilty for that but moreover maybe she  _might_  feel a  _little_  bit jealous.

 _Rachel,_  she admonished herself, and went to drop a stack of paper plates into the kitchen garbage. She started wrapping up leftover bundt cake and busying herself. Distractions.

She doesn't recognize this person that she is becoming.

"So you understand, Puck, right?" Quinn said in a low voice, massaging Puck's fingers with her free hand, not meeting his eyes. "I wish I could stay longer, and you know I want to be here with you but I could only really get away for a short period of time, and it's midterms and I am so close to landing this amazing internship with my professor…" her voice trailed off and Puck rubbed his face.

"Yeah, whatever, Q, it's fine."

"I mean really, Puck, you can call me anytime, day or night, I am here for you. I  _want_  to be here for you." She paused, and rested her fingers over his knuckles. "It's just so much time flying back and forth and I really can't be away for so long. This semester could make or break my future career...our future life together." She took a deep breath. "You know I love you, Puck. I do. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

Rachel walked back into the living room as Quinn was standing up. "Rachel, I've got to get going, but it was great to see you again," She walked forward to give Rachel a hug. "Albeit under terrible circumstances."

Rachel returned the hug, less gingerly than before, maybe still just a little bit guarded, though. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just today," she responded, glancing at Puck, and biting her bottom lip. "Um. Unfortunately, I...I have to leave early tomorrow morning."

He's not mad.

He's  _not_.

"Oh….well," She took a breath. She can't look at Noah right now. She just can't. "Have a safe trip back and a productive semester."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and took Rachel's hand. "I know you were fond of Mrs. Puckerman, as well, Rachel. Please know that I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks, Quinn." Rachel turned to return back to the kitchen, out of this...this scene because...because what? She wasn't sure why she was so...angry?

 _Why couldn't Quinn stay, I mean, this is her boyfriend's mother_?

 _And since when was I so invested in the dealings of Noah Puckerman_? A little voice in the back of her head whispered,  _since always, Rachel_ , but that voice was easy to ignore.  _Who is this person I am becoming, letting my loins overrule my logic? Jumping to these ludicrous, preposterous conclusions about the behavior of a couple that I really know nothing about?_

 _Just because he kissed you last night, Rachel_ ,  _doesn't mean you have any claim to what goes on in Quinn and Puck's relationship,_  she berated herself _._

She stacked dishes in the sink and ran the faucet full blast to drown out the pulsing in her ears.

 _It's not your place, Rachel_. She thought. Quinn's with Puck.  _And Quinn probably knows what he needs, and Quinn wouldn't leave if Puck really needed her._

 

* * *

 

He's not mad.

He's  _not_.

But...she couldn't just...I mean, she was only there for not even a full 24 hours.

Maybe he's mad.

But then again, he really didn't miss Q that much last night, when Rachel Berry was in his lap, but whatthefuckever.

 

* * *

 

 _Well, I certainly can't talk to him now about our...our tryst,_ she thought. Quinn left about a half hour ago, and she's been cleaning ( _ok, fine, hiding_ ) in the kitchen since then. There were a handful of people left, no one she was familiar with.

But she didn't want to leave. Yet.

 _He's grieving, Rachel._ She thought.  _Give him space. Be there, but not there._

So she starts washing the endless stack of glasses and mugs with a detail oriented fury and dedication worthy of a gold medal in dishwashing Olympics.  _Space, Rachel. Give him space._

Ok. When she finishes cleaning this glass, she will go into the living room and -

 

* * *

 

"What. The. ACTUAL.  _FUCK_?"

His fucking father is NOT here. That rat bastard is NOT STANDING IN HIS LIVING ROOM RIGHT NOW.

He sees red and flashes of white and his eyes are throbbing and  _HELL MOTHERFUCKING NO._


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angry, passionate Rachel? Kiiiiiiinda turns him on.

Startled, Rachel drops the glass she's scrubbing in the sink and shards plink against the basin. She runs to the living room, where she had just heard Noah's roar.

Mr. Puckerman is standing in the front doorway. Actually, it's more like he's leaning against the doorjamb unsteadily, and -

Oh dear.

Drunk. Bloodshot eyes, slurring words, stumbling drunk.

Puck's jaw is set tight, his hands in fists, eyes narrowed to almost indistinguishable slits.

"My son," Mr. Puckerman starts towards him, hand outstretched, and Puck slaps it away.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"I'm not allowed to pay condolences, and  _grieve_ , for my  _wife_?" Mr. Puckerman's eyes opened wide. "Why so angry, son? You weren't so  _angry_ last time we chatted." He paused and swept his glance around. "This was my house once too. You and Becca were mine. Are mine."

His words reverberated as they bounced off the walls of the still room.

"She was not. Your  _wife_ ," Puck talked through clenched teeth, fists balled up tight. "You are  _not_ my father. You never  _were_  my fucking father, you piece of shit. Now get the  _fuck_  out of  _my_  house."

Mr. Puckerman turned towards Nana Connie. "Connie. Our poor Rina.  _My_  Rina. She was gone too soon." Nana Connie took a step away from him.

"I  _swear_  to God, get the fuck out of my house, you motherfucking low life drunk piece of -" Rachel reached for Puck's arm.

"Noah," she whispered. "Noah, please…"

"Listen to your girlfriend,  _son_ ," Mr, Puckerman spat the word with derision, and tripped over a side table. "I'm grieving too, you asshole." He started towards Becca. "My girl. You grew up to be such a pretty girl, my Rebecca."

 

* * *

 

And that was it, because  _hell fucking no_ is this bastard going to try to pull any kind of shit with his sister, the fucking daughter he never even saw after she was 3 years old. Everything exploded all at once.

He landed a firm punch squarely on his fathers jaw, hard, knocking him over the coffee table, and then another and then all he could see was his father's shitty ass face in front of him and he just wanted to keep hitting and punching and fuck, someone grabbed him, someone is pulling him away and he all he could see is rage, white hot, pounding in front of his eyes.

Becca is screeching a tirade of "fuck you's" and "get the fuck out", and his dad is screaming and Nana Connie is crying and everyone is yelling and it's Rachel, Rachel is the one pushing him into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen and sliding the door closed.

He's shaking so fucking  _hard_ and he can't catch his breath and his heart is about to pound out of his chest and he is going to fucking KILL him he is going to wrap his Goddamn hands around his lying, fucking, deserting throat and twist and choke until he turns eleven fucking shades of blue and then he will still keep twisting. He cannot believe, of all the fucking people to walk through that fucking door, and what the fuck does he even think he's doing here and he was never, ever a fucking husband to his mom and , he is going to rip his fucking head off and shove it up his ass and how dare he,  _how mother fucking dare he_ -

"Noah."

He feels Rachel's hands on his face, solid, still. He can't focus, everything is spinning and pulsing in front of him.

"Noah. Look at me." Her voice is quiet, calm. "Not here. I know, Noah, I know how much it hurts. But. Not here. Not now."

His head is going to explode, his eyes, his eyes hurt, the tightness in his chest is twisting and turning and suffocating him. He is going to fucking KILL him -

"Breathe, Noah. Breathe." Her hands are still on his face. He tries to steady himself, to stop the shaking, the throbbing.

It just fucking  _hurts_. It all hurts so fucking  _much_ and he just can't...he just can't  _do_  it. His mom, his mother, she's gone, he can't, and his dad is such an asshole and he was never a father and everyone always leaves him, they always fucking  _leave_  and he's trying so hard and he needs to keep it together he needs….he needs…

Something inside him breaks. Something tears, something shatters. Something drops deep into the pit of his stomach and snaps, hard, and he can't stop it, he can't stop.

He closes his eyes and drops his head and he's crying.

 

* * *

 

Rachel still has her hands on his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Oh God. Oh Noah.

Rachel's heart is breaking. She just holds him, and he lets her, rests his head against hers, and she feels his shoulders heaving and his breaths coming in and out raggedly.

She's not going to say it will be ok.

She's not going to say she is sorry for him.

She's not going to say anything. He's broken, so she's just going to be there, be here, be with him.

And hopefully that will be enough.

 

* * *

 

_Fuck. Fuck. Calm down, Puckerman, get your shit together here._

"Shit," He breathed in. "Shit. Jesus. Fuck." He turned from Rachel and rubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit.  _Dammit_."

Rachel doesn't know what to say. She just stands, waits.

"Fuck, Rachel. Fuck." He slams his hand down on the lid of the dryer. "Why the fuck did he show up here?"

"I know, Noah," She's whispering. "I know."

He paced up and down the length of the room as Rachel stood, watching him, wringing her hands, when Becca slides the door open to the laundry room. "Hey," she starts out, and bites her lip. "Dad's gone. Um. Puck. Are you...ok?"

"Yeah," he responded tonelessly. Then, with more vigor and anger, "Where is he? I swear to God, Bec, I'm going after him, I am going to fucking kill him."

"Uncle Rich dragged him out of the house, and Nana Connie locked the door. The cops are dealing with him right now outside." She tried to hide a grin. "Apparently someone called the cops when they saw him driving piss drunk and he hit a few parked cars. The cops were at our door within seconds of your escape." She allowed the patented Puckerman smirk to bloom her face. "Your left hook is banging, bro. That was fucking  _awesome._  It's gonna leave a damn good bruise."

"Shit," He took in another deep breath. "Cops. Am I - is Nana Connie pissed?"

"Nah. She would have hit him if you didn't, I bet. And no one said anything to the cops about your punch, so I'd just stay in here till they leave." Becca turned, starting to pull the door closed with her before she looked over her shoulder with a sly smile. "And if anyone asks about you, I'll just tell 'em you and Rachel are macking it on the washing machine."

Rachel flushed a crimson red.

"Bec, seriously, the fuck!"

"Oh, please, Puck." Becca rolled her eyes. "Gimme a break. First of all, like anyone  _really_ believes the great Noah Puckerman could have a steady girlfriend...especially one who couldn't  _possibly_  even stay a full day." Becca paused. "Secondly, no one saw her  _yesterday_ at mom's funeral, but they sure saw Rachel holding your hand and then  _mysteriously_ disappearing from shiva  _at the same time as you_ last night."

Rachel grimaced.

"And thirdly? Quinn sucks. The End." Becca pulled the door shut.

Puck groaned and rolled his eyes. "Fucking teenager, I swear."

"Noah, I…" Rachel stopped, and then started again, looking at her feet. "I'm sorry Quinn left."

He hopped up to sit on the dryer, and shrugged. "Whatever."

"She shouldn't have, you know," Rachel starting gaining confidence, and her words came out more forceful, more deliberate. "You needed her here and she abandoned you."

"Geez, Rachel, I don't  _need_  anyone." He's not mad. "Q puts Q first and everyone and everything second and whatever, I knew that, it's always  _been_  like that." Ok, so maybe he is mad.

"Well." She doesn't know  _what's_ coming over her but she's...angry. Like, really angry now. And the words just start coming out before she could stop or think or act and it's just a flood. "Well. You know what, I'm not sorry that I hooked up with her boyfriend. You know that?  _I'm not sorry_ , I mean, if she was any other friend, maybe I would be sorry, maybe I would be guilty, that I was this brazen other woman, and I know, that was probably just a mistake, a one time thing and you're pretty much grief stricken and I can't hold you entirely, coherently, responsible for your actions and I'm sure that I was just a release for some of your emotions, and that's fine, you know what, I am ok with being a release. I enjoyed being a release, oh, did I  _enjoy_ it. But  _dammit_ , Noah, I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry it happened and I'm not sorry to Quinn and I'm not sorry to be some hussy, and she shouldn't have left you, and  _God_ , would you  _please_  just tell me last night was just nothing already, just a silly mistake fueled by grief and alcohol and hormones so I can move on and stop thinking about you and your arms and your mouth and just….just tell me it was a mistake and that's that! Ok? Ok!"

Now Rachel is the one breathing heavy, face ablaze, hands on her hips, looking at Puck defiantly.

Angry, passionate Rachel?  _Kiiiiiiiiiinda_  turns him on.

He cocked his eyebrow up. "I knew  _exactly_  what I was doing last night, Rach."

"Oh, please, Noah," Her defiance was tinged with a very slight hint of sarcasm. "You were pretty far drunk. My goodness, you're going through a terrible time right now. And, a girlfriend, you have a  _girlfriend_! You must agree, our actions were most certainly a mistake."

So maybe he was drunk yesterday but really? It wasn't a fucking mistake. And it pisses him off that, always with Rachel, the stupid ass token excuse is always that he was "a mistake."

He slid off of the dryer and stepped towards her.

"Fine." He took a step closer. "Fine. So I was drunk. And so were you." Another step. "But I knew what I was doing."

He's standing right in front of her now. "And my  _girlfriend chose_  not to be here. So it's  _her_ damn problem, not yours." He paused. "And not mine."

She can feel his breath hot on her neck as he leans to whisper in her ear. "And it was not. A fucking. Mistake."

This bullshit. This fucking bullshit. Again. So maybe he can't stop having dirty thoughts about Rachel Berry and, ok, fine, he likes sex and everything that goes along with it, and fine, he has a fucking girlfriend (who isn't here, who's never here, whatever) but fuck, he's nobody's fucking mistake and he's sick of always being hers.

He leans his cheek against her head, inhaling her hair, her hair that always smells like vanilla fucking cookies and he just can't even.

Goddamn it.

In high school, he wasn't Finn, so he was a mistake. So many times, because he wasn't Finn fucking Hudson, he was Quinn's mistake, he was Rachel's mistake.

And he tried to prove himself to Quinn, and she took him, but, fuck, she's not here is she? She's never here, or there, and he is always second place and, that, ok, fine he will admit it, that  _fucking sucks_.

Rachel is disarmed by his closeness, involuntarily rests her head against his face, and he feels her eyelids flutter closed. They stand there in silence for a few moments.

"Noah…" She whispers. "I know it was just once but...but what is it about you that it's so much bigger than a 'just once'? What are we really doing here?"

Fuck it if he knows.

Yeah. That's it. Fuck it.

Fuck it all. He's done.

"Don't know," he responds, tucking a piece of hair behind her opposite ear, trailing his fingers down her neck, her back, resting his hand above her waist as she circles her arms around his neck and tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder.

He's so tired of thinking. About the past few days. About everything. About everyone.

He could feel her take a deep breath. "If we start, I...I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to stop, Noah. I...I'm not entirely sure I'd...I'd  _want_  to stop. I...I know I  _should_ , but..."

It's on him. She's putting it all on him, she's telling him she wants it too.

Technically, he's the one making the mistake, for once. He's the one cheating on Quinn.

But fuck it.

He pulls away from her, hands on her shoulders. "Rachel. I'd never make you do anything you don't wanna do," He sighs. "But, Jesus, I can't stop thinking about you since last night."

Why the fuck is it always  _so wrong_. To just. Want. Rachel.

She bites her lip, and looks up at him through dark lashes.

"Well...can we at least go to your room instead of here?"

Um,  _yes._  Jesus,  _finally_.

 

* * *

 

He's lucky as fuck that Becca and Nana Connie are somewhere else (and who the fuck cares where, cause, hello) as he and Rachel scamper through the living room and up the stairs to his room. He kicks the door closed and his hands are all over her, and she's gripping his arms, his shoulders, and he can't stop and he won't stop ever kissing her.

He backs her onto the bed and leans over her, fumbling, pulling his tie off and he's never been so fucking horny for a girl before and God _dammit,_  this fucking  _tie_. Rachel is laughing, her eyes crinkling as she helps him pull it over his head and he legit rips off her sweater and who the fuck cares, it was an ugly sweater anyway and she shouldn't ever wear clothes, like, ever, so he's doing the world a favor.

She smiles into his kisses, she curls her tongue around his, she pulls his head, his body closer, and he's trying to think of ham sandwiches and dentures and whales and anything else that could get his dick to calm the fuck down because, oh shit, she's stroking her nails at nape of his neck he nibbles behind her earlobe and oh  _God_  and now she's unbuttoning his shirt and sliding her hands all over his shoulders and arms.

He wants to be like that Indian god with the eight arms because there is not a place on Rachel Berry's body that he  _doesn't_ want his hands on. It's all happening so fast. She shivers as he sweeps his fingers down her side, and sighs contentedly as he grips her waist tightly and Rachel arches her back to bring her hips closer to him and she feels his desire straight through his Dockers, which deliciously ignites hers even more.

 _Slow down, Puck, slow down,_  he chants to himself. Ok, slow, but that skirt needs to be on his floor right now, and those tights, under the bed, fuck that, get that shit off of this girl and now she's laying there under him, all ivory lace and olive skin and  _fuck_ , he feels like he's 14 all over again and about to blow his load because, fuck. She's fucking gorgeous and he's never seen her full blown underwear (except, you know, dreams and shit) and it's even better in real life.

He's trying to keep it together, his mouth on her neck, her chest, circling her tongue around her navel and he's got this, he's got this.

But then he hears a breathy, "Oh God,  _N_ o _ahhhhhhh,_ " when he moves to nibble her over her bra and he almost loses it, and then she's undoing his belt and pushing his pants off his hips and sweet Lord almighty fuck she grabs him through his boxers and wraps her fingers around and  _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

He lifts himself onto his arms, away from her heaving chest, "Rach, God, fuck, Rachel, I gotta stop," he pants.

She's all big bright eyes and swollen lips and flushed cheeks. "I...what?"

He's breathing like he needs a fucking paper bag and maybe he does (like a pussy, but really). "Rachel, you're so Goddamn gorgeous and I just, I'm gonna fucking blow my load if I don't stop." He drops his head, because, fuck his life, here comes his conscience at the worst fucking time  _ever._  "Rachel. I want to, oh God, I fucking want you so fucking bad but…" he groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. "I  _know_ it shouldn't be like this. This way."

He eases himself off of her and sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Since when is he all honorable and shit. Fuck. He couldn't seal the fucking deal, what the hell is  _wrong_  with him.

He knows, though. He knows it shouldn't be a quickie like this. With all the circumstances surrounding them, with all this fucking history they have, it shouldn't be like this.

She's halfway between crestfallen and touched. "Ok," Rachel responds in a low voice, bringing herself to her knees. "Ok," she says louder. "Puck. Noah. I…" She scoots to the edge of the bed, still in just her bra and panties and tucks her legs underneath her, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "Ok."

He's talking into his hands. He's such a fucking loser. "Rachel, Jesus, fuck, I want you, fuck, I want you now, I fucking want you upside down and every which way but…"

"Noah. It's ok."

"Jesus Christ, Rachel. Fuck my life."

She can't help but grin, as a rather un-Rachel-like devilish thought crosses her mind. She can do this. She will do this.

"We don't have to have sex, Noah," She doesn't pause to analyze, to determine the pros and cons of her decision, and she starts to crawl off the bed and moves herself to face him. "And I appreciate your honesty and especially your gallantry."

No mistakes, no excuses, no cold showers. She kneels in front of him, her hands on his knees. "But I cannot possibly, with good conscience, leave things at this decibellic thundering crescendo without completion." She dances her fingers over the waistband of his boxers. "I am, if nothing, a woman of penultimate  _finis._  So, please," She implores, her big brown eyes gazing up at him while she hooks her thumbs into his underwear and pulls down. "Let me...just…"

What the fuck, he's confused, hold up, what is happening here -

Rachel feels that language should accurately reflect the situation. She prides herself in finding and applying the perfect word for each and every situation, and she takes care in choosing and implementing compliments.

But the only word she can find when she sees Noah Puckerman like...like  _that,_  in front of her, is a whispered, "Oh, my  _fuck_."

And, then it's oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yes, holy shit, sweet mother of all that is holy and God damn and her mouth on him and everything and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck and  _Rachelrachelrachelrachelrachel_ and her tongue is flicking and then she swallows around his length and all he sees is white and bright and light and he's not exactly sure how loud he is being but who the fuck cares and  _yeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssss_ Rachel fucking Berry, ladies and gentlemen.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after, she escapes to Noah's bathroom to freshen up while he's, ahem, "recovering." She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and leans over the vanity, staring at her reflection.

_Who is this person I am becoming?_

_I cannot believe I just did that._

_Rachel Berry. Rachel Barbra Berry, you are a saucy minx._

And she kind of, sort of...likes it.

It's hard to always be the good girl. To live up to these expectations that she, and everyone else, has for herself. She would talk herself into listening to her gut. She would wait in earnest, trying to tap into her intuition, trying to decode slivers of messages that, she thought, were delivered by fate. She'd absorb, analyze, turn over and inside out and upside down, her decisions, her options, and she whatever path she chose, she'd assume that was following her gut. After all, she'd waited, sometimes (often) impatiently for some sign to appear, to tell her what to do, where to go. And after this past year and a half, she pretty much decided her gut? Was broken. It always sent her in the wrong direction. She gave up on her intuition, because it had given up on her - NYADA, Funny Girl, that awful sitcom pilot...she followed what she thought she was supposed to do, and it betrayed her.

She smoothes her hair, touches her red, swollen lips, takes in the flushed cheeks, her bright eyes. This Rachel, she hasn't seen this Rachel in quite some time. This confident, take charge, go-get-what-she-wants Rachel.

In her career, her academia, she's back on track, thankfully being re-accepted into NYADA, just having lost a year of credits. So, if that's considered her endpoint, her result, well, at least that was correct. Although, her gut wasn't telling her to go back to Madame Thibodeaux with her tail between her legs, everyone else certainly was, and she was so angry at her intuition by that point that it seemed logical to follow someone else's. She's done following herself. She can't trust herself.

And then there was her love life. Her disastrous, explosive love life.

There was Finn.

Her intuition had told her to be alone, to be independent, to not tether herself to anyone, and for awhile, that felt good.

But then Finn was...gone.

And oh, the guilt. So much guilt. That if she was there, that if her last words to him were in love and not...well, not anger, but their last conversations weren't exactly love or even lust. That if she was enough for him, more for him, that maybe...maybe.

She never thought she was fully responsible, even indirectly, for his death.

But she never thought she was absolved of guilt completely.

Rachel just didn't know herself anymore. She had no confidence in her choices. No confidence in her direction. She played a decent part to the outside, convincing everyone that she was "ok", that she had a path, but really? She had this feeling of aimlessly floating, in black and white, for awhile now.

Until now.

Until she stopped thinking and analyzing and letting someone else make her decisions and second guessing her gut and waiting for banners in the sky and fireworks (although...yes, yes there were fireworks in this situation, this situation just then was certainly...electric).

No one makes decisions for Rachel Barbra Berry anymore.

She makes her own decisions.

She goes with it.

She listened to her gut this time and instinctively reacted and it was.

Amazing.

It wasn't without consequence.

And an unfortunate reality.

But moments in time like this, where the air is palatable and thick with lust and where her heart and her desire quiet her brain and her logic and even if it's just one moment, just this one moment, where she is on top of the world, then it was worth it.

Fortunately - and unfortunately - the consequences will be there tomorrow. But tonight?

Tonight is hers.

 

* * *

 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck yes, that was just. Shit. He's still in awe and. Fuck. Holy. Just. Wow.

What just happened here? What the fuck? Did Rachel just -

Damn. Fuck, his legs are still shaking and fuck, where did she go?

Shit. Holy shit and fuck and damn.

This girl.

_This. Girl._

 

* * *

 

So of course, the minute she opens the bathroom door, he pounces on her. Noah Puckerman does not leave his women unfulfilled,  _especially_  after a performance as earth shattering as that. So fine, they don't have sex, but if she can make him moan like that with her tongue, well, you can damn well bet he's going to make that girl scream and fuck if anyone hears it and fuck conscience and mistakes and any of that horse shit.

Her taste, her touch, her moans, her gasps. Her breaths, her hands, the way she feels around  _his_  hand, the way she clenches and tightens and releases and reacts to his fingertips and his tongue and his mouth and everything about her is perfect, especially her face, flushed, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fluttered, as he brings her to the brink, and over it, once, twice, and one more time because he likes the number three.

And maybe they didn't have sex and maybe they won't have sex, but this? This is a-motherfucking-ok.

She's stretched out on his bed next to him, wrapped up in sheets and comforters, basking in the afterglow (even though the actual thought makes her blush), when he gets up and starts fumbling in his dresser drawers. He throws an old McKinley football t-shirt at her. "Stay."

The request takes her by surprise, and she sits up and stares at him.

"Stay?" She repeats.

"Yeah," He shrugged. "It's late, isn't it?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I tired you out enough, right?"

"Oh," She can't stop the blush rising in her cheeks. "Well, yes. Yes. Um. Stay. Ok. Sure."

"Cool." He walks into the bathroom and begins running water.

She twists the t-shirt in her hands, bringing it to her chest, and smiles.

Stay.

 

* * *

 

He wants her to stay. He wants to wake up with her, and ok, fine, maybe he wants to get her into his shower and fuck yeah.

And honestly? It was easy to ask her to stay. The words just kind of tumbled out.

Why was it so hard to ask Quinn to come home...but so easy to ask Rachel to stay?

Fuck.

Quinn.

 

* * *

 

Rachel's changed into his shirt  _(heh, niiiiiiice_ ) when he comes back out from the bathroom, and she's sitting with her back against the bed's headboard. He flops down next to her, and Rachel suddenly is shy. She can't meet his eyes, she stares and fumbles with a hangnail, sitting up, stiff, rigid.

It's awkward again. Why is it awkward again?

She just gave Noah Puckerman a blowjob. And he...oh God, he was magnificent returning the favor.

And now she's laying in his bed, in his t shirt and….and…

And no matter how much soul searching she does, she's still Rachel Berry. And the sexual, lustful haze she was under is lifted, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't stop thinking about the potential consequences this "gut reaction" could get her.

"Rachel."

"Oh. Um. Yes?"

"You gonna sit up all night?"

"Right." She slides down the headboard and pulls the comforter up to her chin, curling into a little ball with her back to him.

He groaned. "Rachel. Seriously? After everything, you're embarrassed  _now_?"

She rolled over to face him, eyes wide. "Was there something I should have been embarrassed about before?" Her hand clapped over her mouth. "My breath? Oh God. Did I bite too hard? What? Tell me."

Puck chuckled. "Baby, you were fucking dynamite. Absolute perfection." He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer.

"Oh, Noah," she sighed as she laid her head against his chest. "What are we going to do? What did we get ourselves into? What about Quinn, what about everything going on, what about -"

"Jesus, Rach," She could feel him rolling his eyes. "Just stop  _thinking_  for tonight, ok? Live in the moment just a little bit longer, 'kay?"

"But everything will still be there to worry about tomorrow," she mumbled.

"Exactly. Tomorrow," he replied. "Tonight just...stay."

"Ok," she repeated, breathing in Noah's smell of pine and soap and musk and strength and closed her eyes. "Ok."


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some smuuuuuuttttt!!!
> 
> Also? I was listening to Pandora's 1995 Spring Break station while editing this (with the wonderful RaeLeigh) and I SWEAR PANDORA SHIPS PR 5EVER. The songs were PERF.
> 
> \---------------------------------

It would be too poetic and shit to think that tonight would be the night that he’d sleep dreamlessly - not only is Rachel Berry laying beside him, but, damn, he was tired out from her...their... _activities_.

He hasn’t had a deep, dreamless sleep since this whole nightmare began. And while last night’s dreams were of Rachel and the sexy variety (and fuck, he’s not complaining about those dreams), tonight’s dream was just…

His ma. It was her, over and over again.

And when he wakes up in a cold sweat around 3am, Rachel’s back curled into his side, he can’t remember the details of the dream.  But the thought that it was only and exactly that, a dream, brings him back down from whatever high he had been on when he closed his eyes. Reality.

She’s not here. His mom is still gone. She’s not going to come barging into his room in the morning, looking for some clue to his deviances. She always had this sixth sense of when he brought a girl home for some sexy time, and she usually gave him hell for it the next morning.

He sighs, wipes his hand across his forehead, and turns to face the back of Rachel’s curvy outline. Her - his - shirt is all bunched up at her waist, so that when he rolled onto his side, Puck had felt a swipe of lace from her panties brush above his hip.

 Normally, that shit would totally get him all hard, and he’d roll right on top of her and _get it._

 Instead, he watches a crumpled red 20, his football number 20 on the back of her - _his_ \- shirt, rise and fall with each of her long breaths. He peers over her shoulder, to see her hands tucked under her cheek, and her eyelashes fluttering for one, two breaths, and a light sigh, then stillness. His hand reaches out, tentative and light and then --

 No. His shirt. _His_ shirt, _his_ bed, his _not-girlfriend_ , here. Fuck, Puckerman, she’s not your fucking girlfriend. Get your shit in line. This is trouble.

 But she stayed. At least she _stayed_.

 But fuck. This can’t end well.

 Honestly? _Nothing_ seems to fucking end well, lately.

 So he rolls back over, and tries to find sleep.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Rachel is disoriented when her eyes open, and she takes in the navy blue curtains, the plaid comforter around her. The faint smell of pine and Irish Spring soap and morning float in the air.

 It’s not her yellow room, no floral blankets, no teddy bear at her pillow. No white lace curtains, and this room, this foreign bedroom is a little chilly, and as she burrows further into the comforter, the activities of the previous evening start marching through her head when she hears a snore from the sleeping form next to her.

 Oh. Yes.

 Noah Puckerman.

 Mmmm. She drowsily smiles as she remembers with a mix of incredulity and... _oh my, Rachel,_ where his hands and mouth and lips and tongue were last night and where hers were, similarly, and while the room is still chilly, she is certainly warm now.

 Puck snores again, and Rachel makes a mental note to pick up some of those nose strips from the pharmacy the next time she goes, _because sleep apnea is nothing to take lightly, and also, I can just imagine laying awake next to him snoring and how losing my valuable sleep will affect my singing voice and --_

 _Rachel._ She reminds herself. _He’s not yours. There might not - probably won’t - be another little sleepover._

  _But friends can care about friends’ sleeping patterns. Vital oxygen could be stalling in his body, and not reaching his brain, and then --_

_Rachel._

She’s wearing a t shirt of Puck’s, of Noah’s, she’s sleeping in his bed, she basically accosted him last night, she made him cheat on Quinn. Quinn, his girlfriend.

 And...and.

 There is always going to be a third (technically, in this case, fourth) person in whatever relationship they have - whether it’s friendship or something more, Finn Hudson will always be a name that dallies around Noah Puckerman and Rachel Berry.

 She swallows the lump threatening to rise in her throat and focuses on the snow, falling lightly beyond the curtains outside the bedroom window.  

 “‘Sup,” she hears a voice and Puck rolls over to face her with a yawn. “Morning, babe.”

 That voice of his is all velvet and butter and she almost melts into him again, but no. No.

 He’s awake and she’s awake and she’s not letting her hormones rule her (yet, the little voice in her head whispers, as she attempts to ignore it). And so the reality, that she (and he) tried to push to the side last night? Is going to come in like a freight train soon and sooner.

 But then he wraps his arm around her, pulls her into him and rests his chin on top of her head and she just...

 Lets him. Just for one more moment, she grabs for a few more minutes of dodging reality, or trying to pretend that the circumstances surrounding them are as light as the snowflakes outside, melting as they hit the pavement.

 She’s so...she doesn’t want to say it, but...fucked. She’s so fucked.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He knows they need to talk. He’s no idiot, he knows that this is Rachel Berry he’s got here, and she’s gonna want some fucking encyclopedia explanation of whatever transpired last night but he’s still disarmed by his dreams about his ma and Rachel all angelic and shit snuggled next to him, that he just wants to steal a little more fucking time of this, whatever this is, before it all gets fucked up again, because it will, and he’s gonna have to remember not just the hot sexy time and that ass, but also that it was _really fucking easy_ to ask Rachel to stay last night. Although it would be better to _forget_ how easy it was, but right now, no, just a little more fucking time.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Noah.” It’s a muffled voice, because her face is still buried in his chest. “Noah.”

 He sighed. He knew this was coming.

 “You know we need to talk about,” She pulls away slightly and looks up at him. “About this. Whatever this is.”

 He sighed again. “Can’t we just make out s’more?”

 She was quiet.

 “So, we _can_ make out more?” He says, hopefully.

 Oh, there’s that look. That Rachel Berry look, the one that he almost put out of his mind.

 “Noah, we need to just….figure things out.” Rachel sits up and crosses her legs, untangling herself from his grip, mentally and physically. “We can’t keep...well...we _can keep_ , but it’s not prudent or…”

 “Rachel. Why do we even have to figure it out?” He’s half kidding, but there’s a part of him that’s serious. “Why does everything have to be in black and white and who the fuck cares? We’re both grown ups, and if we want to be fuck buddies --”

 “I am nobody’s,” “She spits the term out, “FUCK. BUDDY. Noah! My goodness, is that all I am? Really?”

 Uh oh. Perhaps his word choice was just a little bit…

 “I’m not just a DVR that you can watch when it’s convenient for you! I am a human being, with emotions! I have _needs_ , true, that is true I am a _woman_ and you...you fulfill those needs quite well, but, for heaven’s sake, Noah! You have Quinn! A long-term _girlfriend!_ And you need to --”

 “I need to _nothing_ , Rachel. I need to grieve my fucking mother. I need to get my shit together and figure out where Becca is going to live, because we sure as hell can’t afford a mortgage.” Reality was certainly coming at him, and hard. “I need to get my mind back in the game, because I need to go back to fixing airplanes in less than four days, and I need to stop having sexy dreams about you, especially if you think I’m going to fucking _propose_ to you now just cause your mouth sucked my dick last night.”

Rachel’s eyes were wide, and shit, this always happens, words just kind of fall out of Puck’s mouth and he can’t control them ever and can’t take them back and he can’t ever seem to stop once he starts and then it’s all --

“I’m not fucking Finn Hudson, Berry, you can’t rope me into being a husband with your magical pussy and a little bit of tongue.”

Whoops. He knew the minute he snarled those words that they were the absolute wrong-est words he could ever say in the history of words, as Rachel’s face flew through a shit ton of emotions in mere seconds - first crumpled, then reddened, then purpled, then seized up, then white.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

“Rachel. Shit. Rach, I didn’t --”

She got up and started grabbing her littered pieces of clothing from his bedroom floor. “No, no, Puck, it’s fine,” The way she says his name...the way she called him Puck...shit. “I wanted it this way. This….this random hookup, me, a location for your seed to sow. I’m fine.” She pulled on her skirt, which looked ridiculous with the McKinley t-shirt still on, but now was not the time for him to critique her wardrobe. “I wanted this to not mean anything and you have perfectly, adequately, inherently, and exactly proven that, yes, we do not need to define a thing. You can’t define something that was never there in the first place. And that’s fine.  _Fine_ .”

He doesn’t like how she keeps saying, “fine,” because he can tell by her face, and how her voice keeps going up at the end, that its totally not fine, and, fuck. Goddamn mouth.

“You need to go back to your life, your job, your... _girlfriend_ ,” Rachel’s jaw was set as she took one last look at Puck. “I was just a distraction for you to get some hormonal tension out, and now you need your space to grieve and regroup, and, Puck, I will give you that space.”

And with that, she slammed the door and Puck felt like a royal fucking idiot.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She didn’t mean to slam the door. Rachel didn’t want him to see how angry, how hurt she was. She needed to be as flippant in her body language as she meant for her words to be, but that’s never easy.

 At least she kept the tears in her eyes until she made it to her car. And then she realized she still was wearing his t shirt under her peacoat, and after that she realized she was anything but fine because, like she said last night, it’s never an easy nothing with her and Noah, there’s always something, there always will be something.

  _Because, Rachel,_ she thought, angrily. _Because you don’t just watch someone who means nothing to you, someone who is just a ‘fuck buddy’, sleep. You don’t stare at her, you don’t stroke her cheek with a sigh. You just. Don’t._

 Rachel is a light sleeper, she’s always been a light sleeper. When he rolled over last night, the motion awoke her immediately, but she stilled herself, pretending to sleep. She felt him stare at her, she felt his fingertips on her cheek.

  _Ok,_ she thought. _Ok. Fine. I’m not going to leave things like this._ She steeled herself. _Pull yourself together, Rachel; start using your brain,_ she scolded. _I know Noah Puckerman. I know how terrified he is of any sort of emotion, and he probably is on one tumultuous rollercoaster of emotions right now._

_He gets a free pass._

_And if he wants to label us as...as…_

_We can be friends with benefits._

 She has wondered about what sex with him would be like, so. But she’s still not anyone’s...fuck buddy. She has _standards._

  _But you know what? Why not. He’s right, why not._ Rachel furrowed her brow. _I am a modern, empowered woman, and Noah Puckerman, my goodness, Noah Puckerman._ She never felt so alive, so electric, such a magnetic and insatiable thirst as when his hands were on her. Even in high school, even when they were merely kissing, there was something there, akin to a rudimentary sexual awakening, that one human being could cause that much salacity with a touch, a few passing-by kisses.

  _It has been awhile_ , she reminded herself. _A really long while since anyone touched you, let alone set you ablaze like that, Rachel. Ever. No one ever set you ablaze like that._

_But why now? Why all of a sudden, now can’t I resist Noah? I was never like this before._

_Was I?_

_Maybe things are just...louder now?_

 She took a deep breath. _I want this. And if “this” stays between the sheets and nothing more?_

_Then, ok._

_Time to go redeem yourself, pull out your inner Olivia Pope, and do some damage control over whatever emotions of yours that might have been misconstrued as needy and demanding._

 She’s going back in.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Why does he do that, why the fuck does his fucking mouth just run itself off and he can’t stop himself and, fuck.

 Rachel’s not just some fuck buddy, he knows that. She never could be, and she never would be. There’s just too much damn history and, ok fine, maybe he wouldn’t have broken it off with her back in high school if he could have kept his dick in his pants and didn’t have to go get Quinn pregnant and Jesus, things would have been so crazy different. But he should have known, Rachel wouldn’t ever be “just” anything. She’d never let herself be, and, to be honest, he doesn’t...ok, maybe he doesn’t want her to be, but fuck.

 Fuck.

 Trouble, trouble, stop this shit, Puckerman.

 And then to bring up Finn. He didn’t need to bring up Finn, shit, why did it always go back to Finn.

 “Puck!” Becca was yelling up the stairs. “Puck, someone’s at the door for you!”

 Shit, he thought. Becca was awake.  Becca saw Rachel storm out of here. Crap.

 He took the stairs two at a time as he bounded down them, and skidded to a stop when he saw... Rachel at the door. He scrubbed his hand over his neck, trying to look casual. “Rach. Hey.”

 “Yeah, funny thing, how she’s here so,” Becca paused dramatically. “So _early_ in the morning.” Becca turned around and walked past her brother, up the stairs. “And wearing the _exact same skirt as yesterday_.” She drawled in a whisper. Puck shoved her.

 “Noah,” Rachel cordially replied. “Good morning.”

 “Um. Yeah,” What the fuck is happening here? “‘Sup?”

 “Is your grandmother in the vicinity?” Rachel peered inside, looking around the living room. “Perhaps we could…” She hesitates. “Discuss some things.”

 Wordlessly, he held the door open to her.

 “By the way, Puck,” Becca’s voice hollered singsong down the stairs. “I forgot to tell you, Nana Connie went home last night. You were too... _busy_ for me to interrupt.”

 He rolled his eyes but, hey, at least question was answered. “Fucking pain in the ass,” He groaned. “So. Coffee?”  He swept his arm out, inviting her into the kitchen in an exaggerated grand gesture. “Chair?”

 “No, thank you,” She stood by the table and smoothed her skirt, crossing her legs at the ankles as she leaned against the table.

 “Coat’s still on, Berry,” He pointed out, as he filled the filter with coffee grounds.

 She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m a bit chilly, Noah, thank you.”

 As the coffee pot percolated, he hopped onto the kitchen counter. “Listen, Rach,” he began, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole before.”

 “No, no,” Rachel waved him off. “I fear my...emotions might have misled you to believe I expected something else from you.” She took a deep breath. “The question I was really asking was what our….our story would be.”

 “Story?”

 “Yes, our story.” She smiled. “Just in case it gets back to Quinn, or anyone else, about my consistent attendance at shiva, and our curious disappearances, I thought we should align an alibi. It’s just easier that way.”

 Huh?

 “I - what?” He creased his brow. “Shit, Rach, I was a major dick upstairs and I didn’t mean to bring up --”

 “Noah,” Rachel stood up and walked over to him. “I don’t need a label on this...whatever this is. If you want it to be purely lascivious and wanton, that’s fine.”

 “Wonton?”

 “I wasn’t expecting you to break up with Quinn or to uproot any part of your rapidly changing and confusing life, especially right now. And I certainly didn’t mean to imply that I wanted any sort of commitment from you.”

 “The fuck’s lascivious mean?”

 “Noah, when you leave for Texas again at the end of the week, I will leave for New York, and,” She shrugged with a tiny smile. “ _C’est la vie._ ”

 “Rachel, seriously, what the fuck are you talking about?”

 “I’ll see you this evening. For the last shiva and for...after,” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear. “And while I do enjoy sleeping in your t shirts, I’ll bring my nightie this time.”

 She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she walked away. “Then again, there is something to be said for sleeping _au natural_ instead.”

 Now, he does know that phrase, au natural means naked, and, wait, did Rachel just say she wants to be fuck buddies?

 The fuck?

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

So, ok, by typical societal standards, what she did would possibly be considered slutty. And maybe wrong, being that she is perpetuating, and encouraging, her role as “the other woman”, especially the other woman to someone who she considers a friend (but Quinn Fabray also did horrid things to her so...ok).

 But at the same time, taking control of her body, her hormones, her desires, felt amazingly empowering.

  _And it just feels, right,_ she thought. _And, oh, so, electric and volcanic, and it’s never felt that way, with anyone before._ The thoughts that pop into her brain at these random moments throughout the day, the positions and places in her that shivered when she recalled their previous dalliances, and imagined future ones - she never thought with her hormones, and only her hormones, before. Rachel always plotted and planned and charted every decision, especially those related to her sexuality. Sometimes on paper, ok maybe there were a few Excel spreadsheets that she unabashedly created; most of the time, she pro and conned her way about in her mind.

 But this, this was just - like magnetic. She wants, she goes, she gets.

 And she gets all right.

 So maybe she will just run with this and do exactly what her words to Noah were earlier.

 And maybe she’ll dress accordingly, also.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Rachel arrived in the early evening to the Puckerman residence, as promised, and continued to maintain her M.O. from previous shivas - be a friend, be there, be present but not too present.

 She was listening (fine, pretending to listen) to old Mrs.Trachtenstein’s recent hip replacement woes. Luckily, Mrs. T was one of the most oblivious people in the entire temple, so she didn’t notice Rachel was only nodding occasionally, and at the complete wrong times in the conversation.

 Becca was giving her these sly knowing looks every now and then, and while Rachel was not ashamed in the slightest of her exploits with Becca’s brother, she knew that girl would take any shred of information and attempt destruction of the Quinn/Puck relationship.

  _Like that would be such a tragedy._

_Rachel Berry!_

 She admonished herself severely. _While you may be the other woman for a short period of time, that gives you no certification to wish the demise of a relationship_.

 She crinkled up her nose as she took a sip of her tea, and Mrs. Trachtenstein started in on the travesty of medical billing these days. So maybe she does feel just the tiniest twinge of guilt for going behind Quinn’s back like this. _I still can’t get over the fact that she could barely be bothered to spend 24 hours here with her boyfriend, Rachel thought. And...and…_

_No, Rachel. Don’t go there. This is not ‘if Noah Puckerman was my boyfriend I would…’_

She bit her lower lip, and glanced across the room at Puck, sitting with Nana Connie. He caught her eye, and winked.

  _And...if Noah loves Quinn that much…_

 She managed a tiny smile back at him after his wink.

  _He said he can’t stop thinking about me. He said last night, when we were in the laundry room. That he knew what he was doing. That I wasn’t a mistake._

_Does he love Quinn, though? I mean, if he loved her...if he loved her enough, wouldn’t I then be a mistake? I mean, that...well, it wasn’t lovemaking (yet), but how could it have absolutely nothing behind it? How could he be in love with someone else, yet doing these...things...with me?_

 Maybe all they did was make out ( _all you did?_ Her inner monologue reprimanded her yet again.  R _achel Berry, he had his tongue in...places)_. But, ok, if they made out and fooled around and it ended at that last night…

  _I told him I was staying the night. I didn’t give him the option. What is it going to end at tonight?_

How much longer is she going to deny that, oh God, she wants it to not end? Would she have stopped if he hadn’t last night?

_Sex without love, without a relationship,_ she thought. Sex without a relationship isn’t that new a concept to her.

_But I don’t know if I know sex independent of love_ , she thought.  _And I don’t know if that’s what this could be. Or should be._

_Or is._

_He loves Quinn, doesn’t he...but ...but I’m the one in his bed._

_By that logic, I don’t understand how this thing we have isn’t considered a mistake by him._

Rachel heaved a great sigh. _I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why it’s happening now, of all times, but... S_ he closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat.

_Goodness, Rachel...what is it that you do want?_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He was getting a drink when Becca appeared behind the fridge door like she fucking apparated all Harry Potter and shit.

“You totally banged Rachel last night didn’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Shut it, Bec,” He hissed, slamming the fridge door closed. “You don’t know shit.”

“I saw her stomp out of here this morning, and then ring the doorbell like, 15 minutes later.” Becca shrugged. “It was just me here, I don’t know who she is keeping secrets from.”

He shoved his thumb in his eye. “Becca, just...fuck off about it all, ok?”

“Are you gonna dump Quinn?” She prodded. “You should, you know. She sucks.”

“Becca, Jesus!” He slammed his hand on the table and she jumped.

“I’m sorry, Puck, but I feel like she just uses you. You’re there when she needs you, and when she doesn’t, then that’s it. it’s always been like that. With Beth, then after she was gone, Quinn dropped you, she didn’t need you till she needed you again, whether you wanted her or not.”  With the mention of his daughter’s name, Puck’s eyes hardened at his sister.

“And it was like that when you first went to Texas too, Puck, that first weekend you were allowed visitors. I saw the plane ticket  _you_ bought for her on Mom’s credit card bill. I know she was supposed to come visit and she bailed. She was at McKinley that weekend, I saw her talking to Coach Sylvester. She should have been visiting you.”

“Wait, you check Mom’s credit card bills?”

“ _THAT’S_ what you take away from this?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Well, yes. I want to make sure she’s not,” Becca sighed and closed her eyes. “Wasn’t. There was a time I accidently found out she used a credit advance on her card to send money to Dad. And obviously she never saw that money again, so I used to sneak the bills from her file cabinet, just to make sure.”

“What the --”

“Noah. Not the issue here.”

He angrily sighed.

“Anyways. I really don’t think Quinn cares about you like you think she does. And honestly? I don’t think you care about her that way, either.” Becca held up her hands in surrender. “And before you deny it, whatever, I don’t care, you do you, dude. I’m just giving my opinion.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

“Puck.” Becca looked him in the eye. “Noah. Don’t be a dick to Rachel. I like her. Nana Connie likes her. And you know Mom loves…” she swallowed. “Loved. Loved Rachel. I don’t care what you do with the rest of the crackwhores you go after, or used to go after, or whatever.”

She turned around to leave the kitchen and looked over her shoulder. “It’s no secret that I hate Quinn. I hate what she did to you, I hate how she plays you out, how she scrubs you down and then flicks her fingers and brings you back up again, only to drop you when you need her most. But Rachel, she’s...I don’t know, she’s not Quinn. And I just feel like Mom would...would be really disappointed if you didn’t…” Her voice trailed off and she paused. “Just don’t be a dick to her.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

At least now that Becca knows, he doesn’t have to figure out some clever way to sneak her up to his bedroom. And Nana Connie, well, she left relatively early.  

Ok, maybe he was just paranoid or something? But did Nana Connie actually just  _wink_ at him over Rachel’s shoulder, as she hugged her goodbye? The fuck? It’s like psychic Jew power or some shit here.

Anyways, it was no big deal when Becca went up to bed, and she just called a “G’nite, guys,” over her shoulder. The lights were dimmed in the living room, the house was neat and tidy after the visitors had all left. And they were alone.

“So.”

“So.”

Rachel studied her hands in her lap. Puck considered the moment.

“Wanna go take a shower?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“What? Noah!”

He smiled devilishly. “Well. Do ya?”

She paused, remembering everything - well, almost everything - from her earlier inner monologue. About how ignited she was, is, whenever he touches her. About how she’s thinking with her lust, passion, not her brain or emotions.

About how, already, the mere  _mention_ of a shower with him is kindling the fire pooling in her belly.

Oh, and his arms. His lovely, lovely arms, wrapped around her.

“Yes.”

“Yes?!”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, ok then!”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her upstairs and, fuck, it’s time for that dream from the other night to come the fuck true, hot damn.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She’s demurely unbuttoning her dress and shimmying her tights down her legs while Puck’s back is to her, pulling his shirt over his head. She can appreciate - she can more than appreciate - the sharp curvatures of muscles that define his back and his arms, cut in places that she’s only seen in anatomy textbook illustrations.

“Rachel, are you sure you’re ok with this?” His back is still to her, and he begins to turn around. “I mean, with fucking around and shit, and --”

She deliberately chose to wear one of her very favorite (and skimpiest) lingerie sets, and, Rachel could tell by the way his eyes were panning over her deliciously, that he certainly approved.

The plum lace bra was unlined, with a tiny satin bow covering the clasp at the center. The cups were cut low, and he could see through the lace, the brown outline of her nipples.  His eyes darkened as they trailed down to the matching thong panty, also plum lace, also sheer, also deepening in color at the juncture of her legs.

“Fuck me,” he swore in a low voice. His darkened eyes fueled her, turned her on even more.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Rachel smiled and walked past into his (thankfully) private bathroom, opening the sliding shower doors. “You have a nice shower, Noah.”

He followed her. “And you have a nice ass, Berry.” He lightly slapped her rear as she bent over to turn the water on, and she squealed in surprise.

“Noah!”

“Whatever, babe,” he drawled as he yanked her into the steamy, running water.

“Noah! I still have my underwear on! As do you!”

“Couldn’t wait,” he murmured, his lips already against her neck. “No time. Need you.  _Now_ .” He slipped the thin straps of her bra off and began to pepper kisses on her shoulder, as one hand flicked the clasp in the front, and the garment fell to the shower floor.

“Noah,” she moaned. “Noah, my bra is --”

“Shut up.” He moved to take her nipple into his mouth and she moaned again, this time more breathily, dragging his name out to several syllables. His tongue worked around the hardened point, and he tested her, biting down, not hard, and when she squeaked, again, then mewled, he moved to the other, and duplicated his routine, a hand caressing her behind as he nibbled and sucked.

His hand moved to her hip, and his thumb hooked and snapped the elastic string of her thong. “So hot, babe,” he moved his mouth back up to her neck, and stretched the fingers of his free hand up throughout her damp hair, palming the back of her head.

His thumb snapped the elastic on her hip again. “So hot...just for me, right?”

She threw her head back as he nibbled there, right there, below her earlobe. “You, Noah, for you, all for you.” she breathed.

She could feel his hard length through his damp boxer briefs, against her belly, and she rubbed herself up and down against him, grinding him, and he grew even harder and had to start thinking again about spinach and dentures and the Boston Red Sox before this ends real fucking quick.

 His tongue swept around hers, as he nibbles on her bottom lip, sucking her moans into his mouth. He dances his fingers off of her hip, and moves over her panties at her opening, trailing lightly, tapping a rhythm out, teasing her.

 “Please, Noah,” she begged. “Please, please…”

 “Please what, baby?” He looks at her flushed cheeks, her heaving chest and his hand slowly, slooooowly scrapes from the back to the front, taunting her until she speaks. “Tell me, sexy, tell me what you want.”

 “Noah,” she holds his gaze. “Noah, I want to. I want to have sex with you, now. Right now.” She bites her swollen lips and looks at him, all bright eyes and red cheeks.  Her arms are still wrapped around his neck, and she grazes her fingertips over the nap of his neck, at his hairline.  The steam surrounding them, curling around them. She pushes up to her tiptoes and puts her lips right next to his ear, enunciating each word. “Fuck. Me. Noah.”

 He sucks in a breath.

 God damn, he wants to, more than _anyfuckingthing_ in God’s green earth, but no.

 It’s not going to be like that.

 But he’ll make it worth it.

 So instead he spins her around so she was facing the stream of water, pulling her against his chest.  One arm wrapped around her waist, the other works its way into her thong, between her folds, up and down as her breath quickened and starts to come in jaggedly. He dipped one, then two fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing circles and patterns on her. His mouth sucked her neck and she knew there would be a mark tomorrow and she didn’t care because, oh, oh, ohhhh Noaaahhhhhhh, and she threw her head back on his shoulder, arched her back, and came into his hand once before he slowed his pace. As her muscles continued to twitch, he brought his speed up again, and she felt another wave of heat and vibration crash through her, as she yielded after her second orgasm, her knees giving out as he caught her.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------

 

Hell yeah, he could get off on that alone. Fuck, he almost did, as she was rubbing up and down against him as he was playing with her. He was rock hard, and he just needed, like, 3 seconds and he’d be _done_ , man, but then she collapsed against him and it was just fucking perfect and he didn’t care at all about finishing himself off because Rachel fucking Berry and her moans.

 But then she turns around and drops to her knees, pulling his soaked boxer briefs with her, and all of a sudden his dick was between her tits and she was pushing them up and together around him and simultaneously licking his tip and holy fucking shit holy fucking shit shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttttttttttt.

 SO. MUCH. BETTER THAN THE FUCKING DREAM FUCK.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------

  


“We’re selling the house.” They’re laying in his bed together, exhausted, her damp hair splayed over his bare chest, head resting on his shoulder. “Bec and I decided today.”

 She was wearing another one of his shirts (ok, fine, maybe she likes the way his shirts smell. They smell like...like him. That’s carnal, right? That’s not... _emotional_ ). Rachel props herself up on her elbow to look at Puck’s face, to gauge his expression.

 “Are you...ok with that?” She asks, tentatively.

 “Yeah,” He sighed. “It’s easier this way. We can’t afford to continue paying the mortgage. I’m not here anymore, Becca can get an apartment by school, so what’s the point of keeping it.” He paused. “‘Sides. I didn’t exactly have the best memories here.”

 “Oh, Noah,” Rachel laid back down on his shoulder. “This house is not all bad memories and sadness. There were some wonderful moments you spent here, I am sure of it.”

 He scoffed. “Yeah. It was _great_ having your dad beat the shit out of you in the living room. Or laying in your bedroom at night listening to your mom cry over the bills she couldn’t pay. Lawyer bills for juvie.”

 Rachel frowned.

 “It was _fanfuckingtastic_ when she reminded me how I was just like him, bringing home different girls every night. It was an absolute _joy_ how I burned mac and cheese every damn night for me and Becca, ‘cause Ma had to work double shifts to afford my dad’s habits. Yeah,” His face contorted. “Tons of sunshine and fucking rainbows.”

 Tears filled her eyes at his pain. She reached her hand down to his.

  _Friends hold hands sometimes. Friends with benefits can hold hands, right?_

 “You know, Noah,” She started off in a quiet voice. “ _I_ have a good memory about this house.”  He grunted as she scooted up to face him. “I had my first kiss on your front steps.”

 “Hah. With who, Berry?”

 “Noah!” She smacked him. “You, silly! And, if I do recall, it was your first kiss too!”

 “Nope, mine was with Santana.”

 “What?” She replied incredulously. “Santana didn’t move here till we were 12, and my first kiss was when we were, like, 8, so what are you --”

 “Relax, crazy. I’m teasing.”

 Rachel scrunched up her nose and relaxed back onto his shoulder. “Do you remember?”

 --------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was a hazy and hot day in late August, and Puck was sitting on his front steps with a lighter, trying to flick it on so he could burn some ants.

 Maybe it would take his mind off of the ache under his eye, the pounding and pulsating that still hadn’t subsided. His dad said it would stop hurting, “when you stopped crying about it like a fucking pussy.” He also told him to “stop being so Goddamn loud all the damn time,” and to “get the fuck out of the house already.”

 He thought burning ants was pretty un-pussy-like behavior. But his eye still hurt so, whatever. What a crappy day. His dad was an ass and would go on a rampage whenever he was hungover, his baby sister was screaming her head off, and his ma was sleeping after an all night shift at the hospital, so he couldn’t even get her to drive him to Finn’s house or something.

 Stupid day. Stupid eye. Stupid Dad. Stupid everything.

 Puck heard the scrape and screech of a bike tire, and looked up. Rachel Berry, this girl from his class who lived a few blocks away, was riding a large bike. It was actually almost funny to see this short tiny thing on this...this man bike, but if he let himself laugh, his eye would crinkle and hurt even more so forget it.

 Stupid eye. Stupid day. Stupid big bike, he didn’t even have a big bike.  He just had his lame one from two years ago.

 She’s too small for that bike. That’s the kinda bike he wanted, with the fancy brakes, and the mountain trail tires. Girls don’t need that kind of bike. Not girls who will ride it in a stupid yellow dress with stupid flip flops on.

 Stupid girls.

 Rachel didn’t notice him on the stoop until he spoke. “Yo, Berry,” he called. “Your front tire is too low.”

 She rolled her eyes. “It’s fine, Noah,” she replied as she hopped off the bike and began to walk it over to him. “I rode all the way over here and it was fine the whole time.” She stopped and stared at his purpled eye. “What happened to you?”

 “Nuttin.” He scowled. “You need a smaller bike, too. You’re like a midget on that thing. Circus midget on too big a bike.”

 “Noah!” She stomped her foot. “Stop being mean. This is my daddy’s bike. Mine is being fixed with a brand new horn and these glittery streamers that Dad found at the sporting goods store in Cleveland and --”

 Right. Rachel had two dads. _Sometimes_ he had one dad. Rarely, though.

 He bet her two dads didn’t hit her.

 “Whatever, it’s too big for you and your tire is flat. You look stupid on it.”

 “It is just fine, perfectly adequate, and besides, I need to make sure I get approximately 1 hour of cardio activity in per day to maintain my heartrate suitable enough for singing and hitting high notes, as well as to bring up my endurance. Bike riding is a great form of cardio training, Noah.”

 “You’re gonna fall, Berry. Midgets shouldn’t wear flip flops on a bike like that, either.”

 “I’m fine! I made it all the way over here!” She turned and stuck her tongue out at him, as she awkwardly mounted the bike and started to pedal away. “Ugh, you’re such a know-it-all, Noah Puckerman and you’re so mean, so just --”

 She didn’t see the pebble in front of the curb, and the bike bounced. The flattened front tire caught on the pebble, her flip flop got stuck in the spokes, and Rachel went down, hard, on her side, the bicycle falling on top of her.

 Puck ran to her and lifted the bike off. “Shit, Rachel, are you ok?!”

 Her right shin was all torn and tattered skin, bleeding, up to her thigh, and her yellow dress was speckled red and brown with dirt and blood. “Noah, language!”

 “Jesus, you’re all scraped up!”

 “Leave me alone! I’m fine!” She pushed him away as he was trying to brush gravel off of her knee. “Ouch!” Rachel squinched her eyes closed, and he saw tears forming in the corners.

 “Does it hurt? I can get you a band aid or something.”

 She started sniffling, her shoulders shaking.

 “Damn, Rachel please don’t cry, don’t cry.” He felt like an asshole for teasing her before, even if he was right, he didn’t mean for her to fall like that.  “My mom’s a nurse, she can fix it, lemme go get her.” He started to stand up to go inside.

 “No! No, please don’t,” Rachel reached out to stop him. “My...I’m....she’ll call my daddy. And I’m not supposed to ride this far, and I just wanted to go somewhere alone and ride by myself and now I am all scraped up and there’s blood on me and…” A new flood of tears began to roll down her cheek.

 “Ok, ok, just calm down,” He paused. “I’ve seen my ma clean my scrapes a hundred times, lemme go get some stuff, I’ll be right back.”

 He ran into the house for the first aid kit and some wipes. He was about to go back outside when he stopped.  Puck turned around to go into the freezer, and dug around for…

 “A ha!” He triumphantly pulled out a grape popsicle.

 He returned outside to a sniffling Rachel and handed her the popsicle after he laid the first aid kit on the ground next to her. “Here.”

 “What’s this for?”

 “You like grape, right? I can get you another flavor…”

 “No...no, I love grape.”

 “Ok, cool.”

 She didn’t even notice the sting of the antiseptic spray Puck used on her leg as she was licking the rapidly melting grape popsicle. He was just finishing with the last of three supersize bandages in a row on her shin, when she took the last bite of popsicle.

 “Done.”

 “Oh...oh, Noah, thank you, I didn’t even notice you doing anything.”

 “Yeah,” he grinned. “That’s why I gave you the popsicle. Whenever my ma fixed me up, she gave me one to distract me.”

 Rachel stood up gingerly and brushed the remaining dirt off of her dress. “Well...I guess I’m going to go home.” She smiled sheepishly “Walk home, that is.”

 “Are you...are you ok to walk home and stuff?” He looked down at the ground and scuffed the toe of his sneaker in the dirt. “I mean, your sandal and stuff.”

 She smiled. “I’m ok Noah, thank you.” She blushed. “That was...really sweet of you to take care of me.” She bit her lip and looked up at him, her cheeks tinged with pink, her lips stained purple from the popsicle.

 Puck thought she kind of looked kind of….cute. For a girl and all.

 Rachel took a step closer and started to lean up towards him, on her tiptoes.

 At the very last moment, Puck moved his face, and the kiss she meant for his cheek landed right on his lips.

 They both froze in place, before parting a moment later.

 Rachel’s eyes widened. “So. So, um, thank you Noah, for, um...right. Thank you.” She turned away and hurriedly pushed the bike up the street.

 Puck watched her scurry away.  He licked his lips, tasted grape popsicle, and grinned.

 You know what, it wasn’t that bad a day. Not a bad day at all.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Yeah,” he finally responded to Rachel. “Yeah. I remember.”

 He remembered how she snuck sugar cookies in his backpack when he was 9, and he came to school with a split lip.

 He remembered how she came and sat with him on his stoop when he was 10, and his dad left for good, and even though his dad was a shithead, he still wanted a dad.

 He remembered how she was the only one who stayed with him in the hospital waiting room, when Shelby took Beth away, when he held his daughter for the last time. He sat with his head in his hands and her hand on his back.

 He remembered how she sat next to him at Finn’s funeral. She held his hand. He should have been holding hers first, but she just sat next to him in the church and held his hand.

 They both lay in silence, and he rolled over on his side to face her.  Puck brought his hand to her face, his fingers slowly, gently sweeping over her cheek, his thumb, lingering. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

 She’s just so...she so fucking gorgeous.She’s always been this...something to him, and wherever he goes there’s always this piece of her with him, no matter how hard he tries - or doesn’t try - she’s there.

 And she’s here now, she stayed here, and she came back here, and just.

 Fuck. Fuck, this is trouble. He needs to think with his dick, he needs to remember, what this is.

 Whatever this is. Or isn’t.

Fuck.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


 

 


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But, fuck, it feels so fucking wrong to roll away from her like this"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't help but write this one super speedily after the last part I posted! Hope you enjoy...
> 
> And, as always, a debt of gratitude to my darlingest RaeLeigh for beta-ing!
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------

_Shut it down, Puckerman._

_It only gets you in trouble. It always gets you in trouble, like, seriously bro, if you get all fucking bitch eyed about Rachel Berry, about anyone, you’re left feeling like a shithead._

_You have Quinn._

_And look how well that’s working for you, Puckerman. Where’s Quinn now?_

_Seriously, fuck relationships._

_So shut. This. DOWN. All of it, any of it. You don’t need this. Because it’s only going to blow up at you anyways, you dick._

Puck took a deep breath, drew his hand away, and rolled over. “G’nite Berry,” he mumbled.

But fuck, it feels so fucking wrong to roll away from her.

How the fuck is he supposed to shut anything down when he feels like…

Dammit.

* * *

 

Rachel laid awake, motionless. She felt that familiar, wanting-to-cry feeling in her throat, but she wasn’t sure why.  She couldn’t quiet her mind from running a million miles a minute.

She’s Rachel Berry. She scrutinizes. Even when she is trying to _not_ scrutinize, she scrutinizes _why_ she’s trying to not scrutinize.

_He didn’t have sex with me. Again._

_I begged him this time._

It’s not that her pride is hurt.  In fact, not at all.  The lack of sex, that certainly isn’t the reason she’s upset ( _because, my goodness, Noah Puckerman. My. Goodness._ Her sexual appetite is completely and totally satisfied, thanks to his expertise).  It’s more than that.  

She knows it’s not that he doesn’t want to have sex with her. It’s that he _does_ , but he’s _choosing_ not to.

And for what? This is Noah Puckerman, self-proclaimed (and, _ok fine, rightfully earned_ ) sex god, that plays with desire like a cheap toy, throwing girls away no questions, no promises, no problem. Who’s to say that’s not what he is doing to her? Is she getting hypnotized into believing this...mirage?

But not once, twice. Twice he chose to not have sex with her. _Maybe because he feels guilty, for cheating on Quinn? Maybe it’s some sort of line that he doesn’t want to cross, into, like, super-bad cheating?_

_But he said...the first time, he said, “it shouldn’t be this way.” What does that even mean? “Should” does not equal “is”, but it implies a “could”, or a “would.”_

Rachel creased her brow. _Have you forgotten, this is Puck.  The same Puck who slushied you, who cajoled and mocked you, who tore you down. You cling to these fairy tales, like that first kiss story, but, still, he was one of the people that almost ruined you the first year of high school_. She just can’t let him go. She never could, despite of it all. _Stockholm Syndrome, or somethin_ g, she muses.

_But he changed,_ she thought. _He was...he did change._ Once she talked to him, really talked to him again, he wasn’t Puck, he was Noah. Sophomore year, she saw him. _Run Joey Run...when he gave up football for Glee. When he apologized for all those slushies. All those times, he was Noah._

The same Noah who cleaned her scrapes back in third grade. The same Noah who stuck up for her throughout the Finn and Santana chapters of her life. The same Noah who _begged_ her not to change her nose, who organized a huge mob. For her.

She suspects not many other people have been privy to the Noah behind the swagger of Puck. She wonders if there is a reason she, of all people, was.

Is. Is she still privy to it? Is that what keeps her coming back?

There’s always been something. There’s always been this...this thickness in the air around them, something that pulls her back into him, makes her want to be a part of his life, wants him in hers.

_Why does it always have to be so hard to even know what you feel, to define what you feel?_

She’s afraid she’s always half-loved Noah Puckerman without realizing it.

She’s afraid he doesn’t feel the same way.

But she’s more afraid that he _does_.

And she’s still not sure why that thought is so terrifying to her.

* * *

 

_Fuck._

_I do need to shut something down._

_And it’s Quinn. I have to end things with Quinn._

Cause fuck if he knows what’s going on with Rachel, fuck if he knows what the fuck he’s doing, and fuck if this isn’t going to all blow up on him, as usual.

What he does know, though?

It’s over with Quinn. He’s done.

It’s been done for awhile now, and he’s just really realizing it now. Thanks to...

Shit.

* * *

 

Rachel didn’t want to be one of those women who sneaks out in the middle of the night. Similar to those scenes from trashy romance novels or midday soap operas; that’s not Rachel Berry.

So she waits until early morning instead. Or, at least, she _plans_ to wait till morning, but when her eyes open in the beginning stretches of dawn, she doesn’t feel as compelled to move yet. Instead Rachel turns to her side and sees Noah laying on his back beside her, and she can’t help but stare at him.

She studies the outline of his jaw. His mouth, slightly ajar, taking long breaths of air. His body relaxed, peaceful, still and quiet. She doesn’t see Puck, angry shards and jagged edges. She sees Noah, soft lines, gentle touch, easy words.

_That’s all I’ve really ever seen, isn’t it? He shows Puck. I don’t see Puck._  Her face contorts into a frown. _No matter how he acts, I just see Noah. Is that my choice, to see that? Or his? Or something...someone, a higher power?_

It’s when he wants to show her, when he chooses to show her, who he is under that bravado, she starts to feel like she could easily fall in love with that person _(if I’m not already_ , she thinks miserably).

She’s scared because she’s looking in a mirror. She can be just as cutting and horrible as he can be, in her own way, she can be as closed off as he can be, in her own way.

_But he has Quinn._ __

_I’ve been down this road before. I’m not putting myself out there to another one of Quinn Fabray’s boyfriends. Yes, technically, I won.  Finn was mine in the end, and no, I am not the same person that I was when I was 15. I am stronger._

_But that doesn’t mean I want to, or should, re-live a plotline from my past, juggling various players around in different roles yet again. I can’t._

It’s decided. She’s decided. It’s time to leave the past in the past, all her doubts and fears and who Rachel Berry was, that stays in the past. Today is a new day, and today is the day she will trust herself, moreover, trust and work towards her future. Today is the day she will look forward, move forward, and stop anything that might bring her backward.

_And that includes Noah Puckerman, and whatever feelings-not-feelings that I am conjuring up in this Nicholas Sparks-esque plot of mine. I am Rachel Barbra Berry. Clearly, I am attractive and sexually desirable, as it has been reinforced to me numerous times over the past few days. Henceforth, a new chapter, with new men, shall be forged. I do not need to be confined to the men of my past as my only option for love_.

_Sex. I mean sex. Noah Puckerman was, is, an option for sex_.

_ The sex he refuses to have with me. _

Stupid inner voice.

_I’m not going to stop being a part of his life_ , she reassures herself. _He’s only here for a few more days, anyways, and if our “relationship” is purely physical, then once we are no longer physically  in each other’s presence, well then, there goes the relationship.  Out of sight, out of mind._

_So I only have to do this for 3 more days. Think of it as practice, Rachel. Think of it as a goodbye, a finale to the life you had in Lima, the life in NYC, up to this point. This is the culmination, and afterwards, you will emerge like a phoenix from the ashes._

With one more glance at his sleeping form, she slips out of Puck’s bed. Rachel creeps around his room soundlessly, packing last night’s garments into her tote bag, pulling on a pair of yoga pants.

_Self preservation, Rachel. It’s time to move forward. This chapter, the Noah Puckerman chapter of her life, is done. Has to be done._

_After some more fooling around, of course._

_But the emotional part, that’s done._

The outside sky was turning to morning, a mix of pink and purple overshadowing the navy of night, and Noah began snoring away ( _despite the specifically physical nature of this relationship, I can still leave those printouts on sleep apnea for him_ , she thought to herself, pulling a sheaf of papers from her tote).  She silently snuck out of his room, shoes in one hand.

She’s not going to acknowledge that she’s still wearing his shirt.

Tip toeing, she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and jumps when she hears a voice from the kitchen.

“Rachel?” A pajama-ed Becca was sitting at the kitchen table, hands clasped around a steaming mug, feet perched on the chair across from her. The table was backlit - the first strands of morning sun were streaming through the window behind her.

Busted.

“Hi….hi, Becca,” Rachel stammered. “You’re up...early.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a morning kinda gal.” She takes a sip of tea and looks pointedly at Rachel’s shoes in her hand. “So. Whatcha _dooooooin’_?”

“I was just...”

Becca raised her eyebrows, but remained silent.

“I’m not...this isn’t...” Rachel replied indignantly. “Not... _necessarily_.” All her certainty about moving forward is instantly replaced by guilt of being caught.

Becca sighed. “I know I’m just the little sister, Rachel. I can be a pain in the ass to him.” She paused. “But I love my brother. And I know him better than most people, _probably_ better than he knows himself.”

Becca’s foot pushes the empty chair towards Rachel. Rachel doesn’t accept the gesture, but also doesn’t leave the doorway of the kitchen.

She studies Becca. Rachel’s always been fascinated by the coinciding identities and appearances of brothers and sisters, probably because she doesn’t have a sibling of her own. Becca is a carbon copy of her brother - piercing hazel eyes, dark hair, tanned skin. Rachel doesn’t know Becca, personality-wise, but the thought of a female with Puckerman genes, and the potential of being on the opposing side of said female, disarms her enough to not leave, not yet at least.

“I know he doesn’t want me to get involved, and, believe me, I could _totally_ wreck the shit out of Quinn and that relationship if I want to. And, damn, _do I ever_. But I’m not going to fuck around in that, because I’m pretty sure it will blow up somehow and you guys will all be screwed.”

Yup, same Puckerman mouth. Same Puckerman demeanor.

Rachel sighed. “Well, despite what you may assume from the situations as of late, for the record there is nothing going on between Noah and I. And you are most certainly not the ideal person to even discuss that with. If there was.” She adds.

_And there’s not, because I’m pretty sure I am just getting swept up in silly romantic notions. Moving forward. Not backward._

“No,” Becca shook her head nonchalantly. “No, I’m definitely not the right person to discuss my brother’s love life with.  Buuuuut, that’s not about to stop me.” She nudges the chair to Rachel again. “See, whatever you guys are? You’re a something. Damned if I know, but a _something_ is there.”

_Ok, so maybe there is a ‘something’ between us. But I’m not going down that path again._

Rachel finally sat down across from Becca.

“She’s not good for him, Rachel. You and I both know that. Quinn was his brass ring, this reward to prove to himself that he wasn’t the Lima Loser everyone said he was. But she’s not for him, you know?”

_No, she’s not._

“I appreciate this insight you are giving me but really, I, of all people, also do not want to interfere or analyze the relationship matters between Noah and Quinn. Just because I’m here, just because I spent a few nights with him as a...as a warm body,” she swallows at the thought. “Doesn’t automatically mean that I am the penultimate choice to accept the starring role as Noah Puckerman’s girlfriend. It doesn’t mean I should, could, or even _need_ to be the one ousting Quinn from that place, for the mere fact that _you_ don’t like her.” Rachel stiffened in the chair.

_I wonder what it would be like, though. Being his his girlfriend._

“See, again, that’s where you’re wrong, Berry,” The familiar nickname freezes Rachel. Becca shuffles away from the table to fill an empty mug from the steaming kettle. She offers it to Rachel,  simultaneously tossing her a tea bag. “Rooibos. I don’t do coffee,  tastes like shit.” She sits back down to face Rachel.

“He always watched you in temple. Every service we went to, we always had to sit in the same vicinity as your family. Three rows behind you, couple seats to the left.”

_Did he?_

Rachel shook her head. “Puck likes girls. I doubt there is anything special about his seating choices during any events, other than to hide himself so he could sleep without Rabbi seeing him.” Rachel said doubtfully.

_He always sat next to me at Regionals. And Sectionals. And...Nationals._

_Or maybe I sat next to him. _

_No. Purely coincidental.  Don’t get swept up, Rachel. Don't search for things that aren't there to be found._

“My brother is a dick. He can be pretty cruel, especially to chicks, but it’s self-preservation.” (Rachel feels a pang of discomfort when she hears her M.O. repeated). “I do it too, sometimes.  I mean, not to girls. Well, yeah, sometimes to other girls, but mostly guys. It’s easier to be a jerk than to be real and honest and shit.”

_So much easier. I’m so sick of everything being so difficult. I’m so tired._

“Becca, with all due respect,” Rachel said. “I feel that everyone goes through those moments. I can certainly see where it applies to Puck, but I fail to see how that demonstrates some...connection between us. This really doesn’t involve me, specifically,  in the slightest.” Still, she doesn’t leave, and begins to sip her tea.

_But...ok, maybe, but..._

_Oh goodness, she...she could be right, it actually, maybe kind of...does?_

“I know, I’m getting there,” Becca scrunches up her nose and swirls her spoon around in her mug before continuing. “You know, I don’t remember much about growing up. I was so little when my dad left, but I do remember the awful shouting matches they would get in to. And how he would come in and out of our lives on his terms, especially after he left for good. Puck hated our dad but wanted a dad so much, that every time Dad would come back, Noah’d fall for it. Dad would keep fucking with him, promise the moon one day then knock him around the next, and you and I both know, to an impressionable kid who just wants a dad? That’s not any sort of help.”

Rachel stared in disbelief. “Do you normally psychoanalyze your brother? How do you know this much?”

Becca smiled and shrugged “Therapy. I was troubled, too. I had my moments, and my mom, she helped a lot, she got me to a therapist and shit.” She nodded. “I could tell her stuff. Noah couldn’t, he’s a guy. But I could, even the hard stuff. There’s that….bond between a mom and a daughter, yeah?”

_No. No, I don’t know._ Rachel fixates on the repetitious swirl the cream makes in her tea _. Shelby comes into my life, Shelby leaves my life. Shelby never stays long enough in my life for any kind of bond._

Rachel chose her words carefully and slowly, after taking a deep breath. “Becca, I’m _terribly_ sorry for all the horrible things that Noah and you have been through in the past, I truly am. It breaks my heart, believe me, and I could certainly see how it destroys a child during his most formidable years. But, if all the evidence you have about this supposed love affair between myself and Puck, is some staring and a damaged childhood, well then...I’m not sure you’re on the right track.”

_I’m not here to save him. I'm not here to fix him or the mistakes of his past._

“Love affair?” Becca looks furtively at Rachel.

_Shoot. I didn’t mean...but she’s going to think I meant..._

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Becca.”

“Just sayin.”

They both sat silently for awhile before Becca spoke again. Quietly, deliberately. “You never gave up on him, Rachel. I know how shitty he was to you at the beginning of high school, but you never stopped being there for him. He was so screwed up then, with the baby and Quinn, and everyone threw him under the bus during that. Even when you were with Finn, you still made a place for him in your life.”

Rachel bristled at the thought of how many arguments between her and Finn centered around how Finn felt she should actively hate Puck. How she should disown him from her life, for the mistakes between them.

_Why didn’t I?_

_I should have. Should I?_

_I...couldn't._

“Everyone kind of forgot he stepped up for that baby, for Quinn, and albeit a little screwy, he tried. But once Beth was gone? Everyone went back to assuming he was a fuck up, wrote him off. Especially Quinn. And he went off the deep end with all his anger again.”

_I never deserted him._

“People change, Becca. Quinn went through a lot, too, she grew up so much over the next few years. She isn’t the same person that she once was.” Rachel couldn’t believe she was defending Quinn, but at the same time, is Quinn the enemy here? Is there an enemy? “We were young, still babies ourselves in the grand scheme of things; nothing that any of us did or didn’t do should be held against us.”

_But I used him too. Every time I "needed" him...it was to get to Finn._

_I used him too._

_Maybe I’m no better than the rest of them._

_But...but I don't. ..I mean , if i did, quote , unquote, "love", him...it's not out of pity._

_If I did. Do?_

“I know that. Much as I dislike her, Quinn’s not the AntiChrist. I _guess._ ” Becca rolled her eyes. “She makes him happy, sometimes. I think. But I just, I dunno, I just don’t see it. The fact that she didn’t even bother to come for more than a night for him? I mean, really? What the fuck?”

Rachel nodded reluctantly. _Indeed_.

“I miss my mom like hell, she was - is - my best friend. But Noah, he’s going to go through it much worse. He’s been through more than me, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his emotions. People leave him, Rachel, they don’t stay for the long haul because they just see his surface, they see how much of an asshole he can be, but they don’t try to find what he is underneath all of that...damage.

_I do. I see it. That’s the Noah...that’s the Noah I..._

“You know, he protected me? Through all that crap with my dad. Whenever Dad was in his stupid family man mode, Puck would send me to Nana Connie’s or find some reason to get me out of the house.  And then when Dad was really gone for good, Mom was constantly working doubles, just to cover the bills. So Noah cooked for me, he helped me with my homework, he put me to bed.  He forged my permission slips, he packed my lunches, he woke up with me when I had nightmares. But no one saw, or sees, that side of him. He doesn’t let anyone see that side of him, and if they do, they write it off. He’s got such a crazy shit-ass past, it’s just easier to make him an asshole.

“I have no idea what you guys do, what you talk about, _if_ you even talk at all.” She shudders with a small smile. “Ugh. Gross. Anyway, I know you’re here now, you’ve been here, and you come back to him, for him, despite what he has done to you before. And I see the way he has been looking at you, still watching you, and, _don’t you deny_ that _you_ look back at him the same way.” Becca finished the last sip of her tea and put her mug in the sink basin. “So, ok, if it’s easier for you to leave right now and not come back, fine, I’m not going to make you feel guilty about it. He’ll deal, he always does. But Rachel, you haven’t given up on him yet, so don’t do it now.”

Becca turned and left the kitchen, Rachel sitting at the table alone, dazed.

* * *

 

 

When Puck rolls over and sees the empty space next to him, his first inclination is, _oh fuck_.

His second is, _oh, phew._

His third is, again, _oh, fuck._

Because her bag is gone, her shoes are gone, any and every trace of Rachel Berry is gone from his room. And that’s what he wanted, right? To be a one and done (or two...three...and done…) thing. But, ok, maybe now he feels kind of shitty about it. Not as relieved as he should be.

_You’ve got to break it off with Quinn._

He fumbles around on his nightstand, looking for his phone. Four missed calls from Quinn, three texts.

_Puck, I’m back in Amsterdam. Are you ok?_

_I’m thinking about you. Call me?_

_Puck, I’m really concerned. Why aren’t you calling or texting me back? Are you ok?_

_No, Q, I’m not ok,_ he thought angrily and miserably. _My mom’s dead. You couldn’t bother to stay here, but what’s worse, I don’t think I even fucking want you here anymore. And I want to fuck someone else, but I’m too much of a pussy to even do that, so I am pretty much fucked and have been fucked and continue to be fucked._

But he doesn’t text that to her.

Not yet, at least.

Because maybe Rachel made the decision for him. _She left, didn’t she? Fine. Let her leave_. Maybe then he can forget this entire week happened, and go back to how pig-in-shit happy he was before his entire life turned into a fucking gong show.

He doesn’t need this shit. He’s got enough to deal with right now, his ma, he doesn’t need this. He doesn’t want this.

Noah Puckerman doesn’t need anyone. Or anything.

He rolls over onto his back again and punches the wall next to his bed. Fucking everything. As usual, fucking everything.

Girls are the worst.

* * *

 

Rachel doesn’t leave.

She’s still sitting at the table an hour later, when Puck enters the kitchen, in track pants and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s shocked to see her there, and his sneakers screech on the linoleum as he skids to a halt.

She lifts her head. “Good morning, Noah,” she greets him, quietly.

“The fuck are you...how long have you been down here?”

“Long enough,” She replied. She stood up from the table, and he noticed her coat on, shoes on, all ready to leave but. Not.

“I was gonna go out for a run,” He said, uselessly.

“In February.” She stated. “With snow on the ground.” Rachel raised her eyebrows.

“Whatever, there’s only snow on the _grass_ ,” He replied defensively. “I don’t give a fuck about the weather.”

_Why am I defending myself to you, Berry? You left._

Rachel took a breath. “Noah, I need to tell you something.”

“‘Kay,” He said.

_I don’t need anyone. Or anything._

“If this were Sam’s mom? Or Artie’s dad, or Mike’s, or any of the guys. I wouldn’t still be here,” She studied his face, then looked thoughtful. “I would have sent a card, not made the trip here. Don’t get me wrong, I cbsolutely would pay my respects and offer my support, via phone, email, what have you,” She paused, and nodded, reinforcing her new-found revelation, not only to Puck, but to herself as well. “You know what, that is true. If it were anyone else, no.  No, I wouldn’t have come. I wouldn’t. And if for some rare reason I did? I certainly would not have stayed past the necessary.”

_So? So what._

She picked up her bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. “But because it’s you, Noah? I came. And I stayed,” She shrugged with a helpless smile, because now, now it’s starting to all click for Rachel. “And I’ll come back. For however long you want me to, because I want to, because...because it’s you.” She bit her bottom lip, still with that small smile on her face and another slight shrug of her shoulders, then turned and left.

_Fuck, Rachel. Don’t you leave._

Puck catches the front door before she can completely close it, grabs her wrist and pulls her into him.  His arm encircles her waist, fingertips pressing in the curve of her hip, holding her there to him, steadying her. His other hand cradles her head gently, curling his fingers around strands of her hair.  His lips, soft yet sure, meet hers; his nose nuzzles her cheek ever so lightly. Rachel is immobile, taken aback,  frozen in place.

It’s very much _not_ his typical, “I want you in my bed right now so I can do dirty and illicit things to your body” kiss. It's the absolute furthest kind of kiss from that.

When they finally part, she stares at him, wide-eyed, wordlessly, her fingers absently touching her lips, as if they didn’t exist, as if this didn’t just happen.  

He’s kissed her before.

But not like this. Never like _this_.

It’s a “swelling orchestral crescendo, Princess Bride, ‘as you wish’”  kiss. 

A “Disney princess, happily ever after” kiss.

A "West Side Story" kiss.

A very Un-Noah-Puckerman-like kiss. 

_Holy…oh my...I...he just…_ __

“I’ll see you later, Rach,” He goes inside and closes the door.  

* * *

 

He doesn’t go for his run.

Yet.

If he doesn’t break shit off with Quinn now, he’s going to bitch out.

And Noah Puckerman doesn’t bitch out.

So he’s going to call her now.

He’s not nervous. Nope. Fuck that noise.

_Q call me need to talk_

No response.  

Ten minutes.

No response.

_Ok, fine. I’ll call her myself._

One ring. Two rings. Three...

He checks his watch and mentally does the math. It’s not middle of the night there. What the fuck

Voicemail.

_Fine. Fuck that. Fuck you, Quinn._

Time to take his temper out on the pavement and go run.

* * *

Rachel sat in her car in a daze.

_That kiss was a…_

_That was…_

_Huh. Ok then. Well._

Her entire self preservation plan?

Out the window.

Focusing on the future, not the past?

She’ll focus on the future. Cause she’s pretty sure her future is going to include some part of Noah Puckerman.

She smiles to herself as she puts the car into gear. _Mmm hmm, the dirty parts_.

But also, the sweet parts.

The “Noah” part.

* * *

 

Rachel vows to call Noah after she catches up on homework. Her professors were quite amiable in letting her bring a week’s worth of work home, and she doesn’t want to fall behind. Her phone buzzes with a text around 3pm.

_gen tsos tofu or veg tempura_

Well, he beat her to the punch. She grins as she types her response.

_While I believe you are referring to Chinese food, am I correct in assuming you are discussing dinner plans that involve me?_

_Bec and I are gonna get food come over like 6_

_I will see you shortly, Noah._

__ _peace_

She rolls her eyes with a chuckle and starts to pack up her textbooks.

Is this a date?

She doesn’t care.

Her inner voice is calm.   _I think I know what I want, and I want Noah, and whatever and however that’s going to happen, then I’ll go with it.  I don’t have a definition. I’m not creating a plan._

_I’m taking control...by letting go of my control._

_And, Heavens. That kiss._

She texts her dad (who has been quite...lenient with all the time she’s not spending at home. Granted, she is an adult, but still, a daughter) and packs her tote.

* * *

After his run he was kind of pissed (ok, fine, really pissed) that Quinn didn’t text or call back. Seriously, he just wants to get this shit done and over with. He’s fucking impatient.

It’s been going to shit for awhile, this Quinn thing. It’s crappy to admit it, he tried to ignore it, he wanted it to work. He wanted something in his life to work out, and it felt so fucking good for once, to have everything dialed in, so he wasn’t about to fuck it all up.

But now? S _o maybe I have a more than just a hard-on for Rachel Berry._

_And I’m done with this bullshit Q and I are trying to do. The fuck am I forcing shit for?_

_She doesn’t care. She never came to my boot camp graduation. I bought her that plane ticket, she didn’t use it, but went to Lima instead. I have a life, too. She’s not the only one with shit to do, but she acts like I’m just dicking around._ __

_I do shit too. I like the shit I do. Not that she would ever know. Or fucking ask._

_Fuck that, man, I have a career. A cool-ass, fucking awesome career with planes and shit._

He’s not a pussy, so he’s not texting Quinn again. _Fuck that noise, she can come to me. I got shit to do._

He spent the afternoon with one eyeball on the phone (silent. No texts, no calls, and really, _fuck you, Quinn_ ) and the other on the tv, an old school zombie marathon.

Becca sauntered in halfway through. “I’m hungry and if I eat one more bite of brisket I’m gonna puke,” she complained.

“You a bad Jew,” His eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Jesus, that’s gross,” She scrunched her nose up as a decapitated limb and blood spurts sprayed on the screen. “Yuck. Barf.”

“Ooh, you know what, I could go for some sweet and sour pork,” Puck’s eyes lit up. “Let’s get Chinese.”

“Please don’t tell me this is what’s jonesing your appetite,” Becca replied disgusted, gesturing at the tv.

He laughed. It felt good to laugh.

He texted Rachel. He wants to see her again tonight.

* * *

His phone buzzed around 5pm.

Quinn. Finally.

“Quinn,” He answered. _Ok, Puckerman. You’re not a pussy, let’s do this_. “We need to talk.”

“Puck,” her voice was all sugar and sweet. “Puck, why haven’t you answered my texts? My calls? I’m worried about you.”

“I texted you, like, this morning, and you just called back now.”

“I texted you first.”

“Seriously?”

Quinn laughed. _Dammit. I feel like a dick. That laugh though_.

_But it’s just not there anymore. Fuck._

_Maybe I could just..._

“So...how are you, Puck?”

_No. Do it._ “Quinn,” Puck sighed. “I want to break up.”

“What? Puck, I...what? Where is this coming from?”

“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t _want_ to do this anymore.”

“Are you _seriou_ s right now?” She asked incredulously, and he was silent. “You are serious. Holy shit. Puck. What the…?"

“Come on, Quinn. It hasn’t been right for awhile. It was great in the beginning but just…” His voice trailed off. “I mean, I dunno. I feel like you don’t care…” Holy shit, does he sound like a pussy.

“This is because of your mother, isn’t it.” She stated it, not asked it. “Jesus Christ, Puck, are you dumping me because you feel guilty I’m not a Jew?! Is this some bizarre, like, bending to her wishes since she’s gone?”

_And if it was? The fuck, Quinn?_

“What?! No! Are you kidding me, no, Quinn! This has nothing to do with my ma, or my religion.” He paused. “Well...I guess it kinda has something to do with my mother.”

“It’s because I didn’t come. It’s because I couldn’t stay isn’t it. My God, Puck, you _said_ you understood, you _said_ you weren’t mad.”

“Well, kind of, I mean, it’s been shitty for awhile Quinn, like, fuck, you always put yourself first and --”

“Are you absolutely _kidding_ me right now, Puck?! Did you even listen to a word I said when I was there? I couldn’t leave! You’re lucky, I mean, _I’m_ lucky I was able to get out for as long as I did!  I was in the middle of midterms and I am _so close_ to this internship --"

“My ma fucking DIED, Quinn! DIED! You couldn’t tank a few tests to fucking hold my Goddamn hand?!”

_I can’t even fucking --_

“Puck--”

His temper rapidly boils to the surface, and all the suppressed anger from the last few days explodes. “Jesus, I don’t care about your tests! I don’t give a fuck about your internship! That shit has nothing to do with me! I needed you, Quinn, I fucking needed you, and you couldn’t be here!”

“But you _said_ you understood! You _said_ you were fine!”

“So maybe I fucking lied,” He retorted. “I _didn’t_ understand, I  _don’t_ understand, and I _am_ mad!”

_It’s done. This is done, done, f ucking done._

Quinn was silent on the other line, and then placating. “Puck, this internship is for us. This internship...it would set my career up for both of us. It could _make_ me.”

“Yeah, and it would make you stay in Holland where you won’t answer my calls or texts or whatever again. I could _clearly_ see how this would help us.” His sarcasm was biting and sharp. “I have a career too, you know. You ask me fuck-all about _my_ shit, you didn’t come to my graduation --”

“It’s not Holland, it’s the Netherlands,” she interrupted.

“The fuck, Quinn, I don’t care what the fuck it’s called!”

“Ok, fine, so I won’t take the internship! So I will come home and be your good little girlfriend and bake you cookies while you go out and shoot your guns in the sky!”

“I’m not asking you to do that!” He throws his hand up in disgust.

“Then what _are_ you asking, Puck?”

“I needed you for four days, you couldn’t spare four fucking days!” He shouted over the line.

“This is ridiculous. We can talk discuss the internship and its implications, but I cannot believe that my presence, or lack thereof, is going to be the dealbreaker in this relationship. I’ll make it up to you, but I am not going to argue about something that I’ve already spoken my piece on and can’t change. ”

“I don’t want you to make it up to me. I don’t want anything right now.”

“So you don’t want to break up.”

His voice is tight, hard. “No, Quinn, I do want to break up.”

“But Puck --” She started.

“It’s a big deal. It’s a _big fucking deal_ that you can’t make time for me. I know I sound like a little bitch right now, but, fuck, Quinn, you never put me first. You never answer me when I call, you never text back, I tried fucking sexting with you --”

“I was in CLASS! Jesus! I can’t be at your beck and call, Puck! I have a life!"

“And I don’t?! You only fucking do shit about yourself!”

“That’s not true.”

“I needed you Quinn.”

“And I was there.”

“For a day. Not even a day.” He couldn’t stop himself, he couldn‘t stop the words, and then... “You know, Rachel...” He froze. Shit. Shit, Rachel, why the fuck did you bring up Rachel? He slaps his hand over his forehead.

“Rachel. Rachel. Berry.” Her voice was ice cold. “Tell me, Puck. What does Rachel Berry have to do with this?”

He was silent. Which was pretty crappy, because no matter what he said next, he was screwed. Totally fucked. He didn’t want to bring her up, he didn’t want to mention her name, and, fuck, it just slipped out and now it’s turning into some fucking high school bullshit again.

“So that’s what this is about. She’s a piece of ass in front of you and because I’m not --”

“Quinn, I swear to God,” his voice was low, warning. “I swear to motherfucking God Quinn, don’t you -”

She laughed bitterly. “Ha. I just -- _ha_. Again, I’m fighting with a guy and Rachel gets involved. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Quinn, this is between you and me.”

“No it’s not. It stopped being between you and me the minute you put your _dick_ in Rachel Berry,”

“What?! The fuck, Quinn! Jesus, I didn’t fuck her!”

“Well, gee, _thanks_ for that Puck,” She replied sarcastically. “What a _gentleman_ you are.”

“Stop.”

“No, _you_ stop. Go to hell, Noah Puckerman. You’re the same person you always were, and I’m an _idiot_ , an absolute fool,  for thinking that you somehow changed. That you had it in you to be faithful to someone, _anyone_. I thought I was something, someone special,” Quinn’s voice was all anger now. “You told me I was your _soulmate_ ,” She spat the word out with such derision, disgust. “Was that just to get into my pants? Did you spin that line on Rachel too?”

“I told you, we didn’t --”

“I don’t care Puck. You know what? I don’t care. You’re no different than you were when we were 16. You don’t know how to love anyone but yourself. You put yourself first. Whatever is in front of you, if it has a pair of breasts, it’s your _soulmate_ ,” Again, she delivered the word with loathing and repulsion. “It was _ridiculous_ to think there was _any_ kind of future here. To think you were the type of person that _anyone_ could have a future with.”

He was silent.

“I can’t believe I thought you were different,” She vehemently repeated. “You only think with your dick. Fine, Puck. Fine. You want it over? It’s over. Go fuck Rachel Berry.

“It’s a blessing in disguise, you know,” she continued sullenly. “My professor has been giving me the eye for weeks. And you know what? We kissed once or twice, that’s right, we did,  and I was _wracked_ with guilt over it, over _you_! And that was a kiss, just a kiss, for Heaven’s sake! But I never. I _never_ had sex with anyone else.”

“Fuck you, Quinn, I told you I never --”

“Whatever, Puck, it’s done. I don’t care if you swear till you’re blue in the face that you didn’t. You will. I _know_ you will, because _you always do_. That’s all you are, and all you ever will be, one big horny asshole.Fine. Done. Don’t call me, don’t give me any bullshit about being friends after this, and for God’s sake, wear a condom because Lord knows if there’s one thing you are good at, one thing that you are consistent at, is you’re _certainly_ good at knocking a girl up and then _ruining her life_.”

She hung up. Puck pitched his phone across the room. It slammed against the wall and the battery chipped off.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck._

He knew it wasn’t going to go well. But this? Seriously?

_Fuck, I was doing the right fucking thing._

_I didn’t sleep with her. I made a fucking point not to cross that line and, shit, ok, I did cheat on Quinn, but Jesus, I thought breaking it off and coming clean to her was the right fucking thing to do._

_Shit._

_Shit._

He stared at the wall, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. He shoved his thumbs into his eyes, and his vision clouded into brights and lights and flashes and black.

_You just had to get your hands in Rachel’s pants her the first chance you got, didn’t you, you fucking asshole? Fuck. Couldn’t fucking control your dick, Puckerman._

_She’s right. Fuck, she’s right, I’m a dick. I’m a huge dick._

_She might have missed all this shit with my ma but I ...shit. I’m the asshole here._ __

_I thought I was being all fucking honorable and shit by not fucking Rachel._

_But. Fuck. Fuck._

_I’m the one that fucked everything up. I still cheated. I. Still. Fucking. Cheated._ __

_Like I always do. Like I always did. I’m the asshole, I’m the shithead._

_I don't want Quinn anymore. But. Jesus fuck._

_This is high school all the fuck over again. Nothing has fucking changed. She’s right. Motherfucker, she’s absolutely right about me, isn’t she._

_FUCK._

He punched the wall a few more times, got up, and paced around his room, panting angrily, heavily.

_Fuck._ __

_Fucking fuck._

_Done. I am fucking done, with everything and everyone. Fuck all of this._

He fumbled around under his bed, sweeping his arm until his fingertips brushed glass. Half full bottle of Jack Daniels. He took a long gulp.

_FUCK._

* * *

 

Rachel almost skipped up the Puckerman’s front steps, her tote on her shoulder. She’s getting used to these sleepovers of theirs.

_It’s refreshing. This is refreshing._

She smooths her hair and smiles as she knocks on the door, rocking back and forth on her heels.

_The promise of something...amazing. Something groundbreaking. She feels like she has a secret, like she figured out a key, the key, to her past._

_The pieces falling into place. Things are starting to make sense._

Becca greets her on the other side, jubilant. “Rachel!” She almost shouts, then lowers her voice. “Rach, I think they broke up!” She whispers it, conspiratorially.

“Oh...oh, wow,” she reacted, astonished, stepping into the living room.

_That was...quick._  

_I mean, I admit, I did want that to happen._

_Rachel, don’t move so fast. Lose control, but don’t...just calm down._

Becca is almost vibrating. “I heard him yelling, he was cursing a lot, there were a ton of fucks on his end,” She grinned. “It sounded pretty damn epic.”

_Hold your horses, Rachel._

She opened her mouth, then closed it again when she realized she wasn’t sure what to do next. “Wow. Ok. Ok, then.”

Becca grimaced. “Umm...he’s been up in his room for, like, over an hour. I...I don’t want to get involved and shit, so I didn’t knock on his door but...yeah. He’s been in there and I haven’t heard a peep.  He might be dead.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Becca.”

“If he’s dead, or not downstairs in 10 minutes, I’m eating the sweet and sour pork.”

Rachel shook her head and made her way up to Noah’s closed door and paused.

_I can take baby steps, I don’t need to know exactly what this is, she coached herself. But I do know this has the potential to be a new chapter. At the very least, this has the potential to be the first step to a new chapter._

She opened the door. “Noah?"

* * *

 

He had been drinking straight Jack for the past, who knows how long. Since he hung up the phone with Quinn. An hour? Two? The bottle was only half full to begin with, but now, it’s completely empty. And it wasn't exactly a small bottle.

Puck was sitting up on his bed, leaning against his headboard. His head is in his hands, elbows leaning on his knees, fingers still clenched around the neck of the empty bottle of whiskey. He scowls at her.

_Oh, goodness. He’s drunk._

_He’s very drunk. And very angry._

She hesitated, and took a step towards him. “I...how...are you?” She carefully began.

Puck put his head back in his hands and chucked the empty bottle on the floor. “Fuck.”

Rachel sat on the edge of his bed, gingerly, facing him. “Noah…” she swallows. “What’s going on?”

He sighed and didn’t look up. “Quinn and I broke up.”

_Ok. Ok, it’s a given that he might be a little...upset about this. After all, she was a very integral part of his life. Choose your words carefully, Rachel._

“Oh, Noah,” She looked mournfully at him. “I am so sorry.”

He looks up, his eyes hardened. “You should go. You need to go.”

She’s taken aback. “I should what?”

“Go,” He slaps his hand on the nightstand. “Go!”

“Noah, what are you talking about?”

“Jesus Christ, Rachel, just fucking leave!” He’s yelling. “I don’t _want_ you here!"

“But you said...before…,” She trailed off.

“I was fucking wrong!” He snarled. “I just say and do fancy shit to get into your pussy, Rachel, I don’t mean any of it!”

_Oh. OK. I could see where this is going now._

She still doesn’t move from the bed. “No. Noah, no you don’t,” She reaches out for his hand, her voice quiet, soothing. “I know you, Noah, I know you, and that’s not you.”

“Yes it is, Berry,” he rips his hand away from her as if she was on fire. “‘S’is.” He sits up and glares at her, hard and angry. “I’ve been trying to fuck you since we were fucking fourteen. You didn’t give it up to me, so I’m _done_ , you fucking _tease_.”

She, in turn, set her jaw and matched his glare. _You show me “Puck”, fine. Show me. I’m not backing down, Noah._

“I’m bored, Berry. I’m _fucking bored_ of you,” he growled and waved his arm around dismissively. “I got to do all the dirty fucking things I wanted to, and now I’m done with you. If you’re not gonna give it up, then I have no fucking _need_ for you.”

_Bring out the big guns, Rachel._

She narrowed her eyes. “But you didn’t _fuck me_ , Noah,” she enunciated the word. “I told you, the other night to _fuck me_ , and you. Chose. Not. To.” She lowered her voice. “Because you are a good person. You chose not to because you _care_. About. Me.”

“The fuck kind of bitch-ass do you think I am? Some fairy-ass Prince fucking Charming? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re making up in your head, but I _don’t_ care about you. I don’t care about you, or anyone. I want to _fuck_ you. And now I’m bored because I _didn’t_ fuck you, so leave. You’re fucking useless to me now.”

He stood up and walked to the window, his back to her. “I don’t need this relationship bullshit. I’m not fucking made for that candy-ass shit. I like pussy. I like tits, I like licking and sucking and fucking and being fucked and that’s all.” He turns around to face her. “Like I told you the first night, if you think I’m gonna fucking propose to you because you let me tickle your ‘super secret special place’, you’re fucked in the head. I don’t do relationships or love or any of that shit, I’m Noah fucking Puckerman. I don’t _‘make love.’_ I don't even _'have sex_.'” He makes air quotes and contorts his face.  “I don’t get caught up in this feelings bullshit, with Quinn, with you, with any bitch. I. Just. _Fuck._ ”

She stomped towards him, nose to nose. “Then fuck me Puck. Fuck. Me. _Bend_ me over that chair, _throw_ me on that bed, fuck me and _fuck me hard_ and _hateful_. _Fuck me like you don’t. Care_.” She rips her sweater off, unbuttons her skirt and kicks it across the room angrily, standing in front of him in her panties and bra, hands on her hips. “You just want pussy? Then fuck me. Do it. _DO. IT_.”

He glowers at her, unmoved.

“Come on, Puck,” she spits his name back at him and opens her arms wide. “I’m ready. Fuck me. _Bring it_.”

He stares at her with ice in his eyes, but slowly, she sees something behind it. Something behind the anger, the ice. 

She sees the Noah she saw the night his father crashed shiva. She sees the snap, the break, and it's tiny, minuscule, and if she blinked, she would have missed it, but it's there. The chip in the facade. The Noah in the Puck.

“No,” he mutters in a low voice and closes his eyes. "No." He growls low in his throat.

“Can’t hear you,” she sings. “You need some help? You want me to start?” She motions to his groin, and hooks her fingers into the waistband of his pants.

“Fuck,” he swears, louder, and pushes her away. “Fine, I _can't_ , ok?"  Puck sighs raggedly, sits down in his desk chair, and puts his head in his hands. “Jesus. Fine. Fuck." He mutters in a practically inaudible voice. "I can’t.” 

Rachel pulls her sweater on over her head, and crawls to sit on the floor in front of him, her hands on his knees. “Noah,” she says softly. “Noah, I know you loved Quinn. I know you cared about her. And whatever she said to you, whatever cruel words she used...it’s her anger talking. She’s allowed to be angry,” Rachel hides a small smile. “You’re worth getting angry over, you know. But...but whatever she said. That’s not you. This? This isn’t you.”

Puck didn’t move, didn’t lift his head up.

“You’re allowed to care about someone. You’re allowed to love someone. You’re not just this...you’re not just hormones and lust. You never were. And you never will be.”

He talks into his hands, still refusing to meet her gaze. “She didn’t even listen to me. I told her we didn’t have sex. She didn’t listen, she just assumed we did because that’s who I am. That’s all I am.” He finally lifts his head up and looks at Rachel. “And that’s who I always fucking will be. The asshole who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

Rachel bit her bottom lip to keep from smirking, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You know, it feels kind of wrong, kind of ironic that I’m about to say this, but...I’m actually proud of you for not having sex with me. Because you did. You did keep it in your pants. For the most part.” She full-out grinned. “Kind of.”

Puck pauses contemplatively. “It is kinda fucked, isn’t it?”

“I mean, Noah, you...you did still cheat on her,” Rachel started carefully. “But. But sometimes, things aren’t just black and white, and maybe...I don’t know,” her voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes. “Life can be...serendipitous. And serendipity doesn’t have to coincide or align with what’s right and wrong.”

“Dunno the fuck that means.”

She smiled. “It means happy accident. Finding something…” she faltered, blushing. “or some...someone you weren’t intently looking for.”

“Fate bullshit.”

“I don’t know if I, personally, would call ‘fate’ bullshit, but...there is an element of fate in serendipity.”

They both remained silent, still, until he exhaled and broke the spell.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. I didn’t... all that mean shit I said, that’s not...”

“I know, Noah.” Rachel nodded. “I know.” She rested her head on his leg.

 

 


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Also, they have a jukebox. And Rachel loves jukeboxes, because that means she gets to take charge of the setlist. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs I mentioned in this chapter are awesome and lay an amazing soundtrack for it. Soooo, if you're bored, GO FIND THEM AND LISTEN TO THEM AND HAVE ALL THEN FEELS:
> 
> Maroon 5, "Sugar"  
> Bruno Mars, "Locked Out of Heaven"  
> Phil Vassar, "I'll Take That as a Yes (the Hot Tub Song)"  
> AND  
> Toby Keith, "When You Kiss Me Like This"
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------

_God,_  Puck thought. _I’m like, on a fucking see-saw this whole damn week. AND IT JUST KEEPS GOING._

He sighed jaggedly, exhaustedly. “So now what?” he muttered.

Rachel’s cheek was still resting on his knee as she pondered his question. _Now what, indeed._

_Her life hasn’t always been this…theatrical._

_Has it, though? Anything that involves Noah Puckerman and her, well, it’s always been something._

_Not hard. It’s never been hard to have Noah in her life._

_Well, Finn made it a little difficult, but that’s neither here nor there._

Anyway, her and Puck’s interactions have always been... 

_Dramatic. Volatile. Charged._

_Something._

She’s never really stopped and thought about their similarities.

_He flies off the handle at the slightest of things_

_But...well. Maybe I do too._

_He argues stubbornly, my goodness, so stubbornly and passionately. Even if, especially if, he is wrong. (Which he is. Most of the time)._

_(Maybe)._

_But, all right, I suppose I do the same.  Sometimes._

_He argues back with me._

_No one really….does. They usually give up, shut down, chalk my passion up to my egocentricities._

_Mock my egocentricities._

_Define me by my egocentricities._

Rachel knows she is an overly dramatic person. She considers it part of her charm, a blessing, per se.  She can be a little ( _fine, maybe more than a little_ ) self-absorbed. But, also, very empathetic. Sensitive. ( _often times, to a fault)_.

But no one notices that. True, her intentions were...are... sometimes a little misguided or cloudy, but they always came from a place of compassion.

_His do, too. I’ve seen that Noah Puckerman heart. It’s there._

_No one notices it though._  

She bit the inside of her cheek, an unconscious Pavlovian response to not open her mouth and let words escape. That’s what normally happens. Her mouth starts and can’t stop.

Becca yelled from downstairs. “Guys, food’s gettin’ cold!”

They’re still sitting there. I _don’t even fucking know what to say to her right now,_ thought Puck. _I mean. God, I was a dick._  He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to do anything, because the minute he does something, there’s a damn good chance he will fuck something up.

Rachel shook herself out of her fog and hopped up. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. “Dinner?” 

Puck accepted her hand, holding it maybe a little too long. _I can do dinner. I can’t fuck up fried rice. Well, I can, but. Yeah._

_Damn, her hands are so little. And soft._

_Shit, Puckerman._

He remembers briefly how she came to the funeral. How she held his hand there, too. How she was _there_.

He dropped her hand as they walked down the stairs.

_You just broke up with Quinn_ , he reminded himself.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Rachel hung back as Puck and his sister unpacked the Chinese food. She liked watching them interact - playful, silly. She smiled at the comfortable, relaxed way he taunted Becca, and how she gave it right back to him. The way he shoved Becca’s head, teasingly, then plucked a piece of chicken out of her lo mein and popped it in his mouth.

_And, my oh my, that jaw,_ she thought appreciatively, as she watched him. _Who knew the mere act of chewing could be so….hot._

He winked at her as he stole another piece of chicken while Becca was at the fridge. Rachel half rolled her eyes at him, but with a smile. 

_He’s leaving to go back to base soon._

_I need to live in the now. Like he told me that first night. And if history repeats itself, we’re both going to leave Lima and leave this “us”, and I’m not sure I want to spend the last moments of an “us” trying to analyze and drudge up the past._

_I want to know, though. I want to know what’s going on in his mind and if he feels this...whatever “this” is, too._

_Because if it were up to me?_

_I wouldn’t just let “this” end the minute he steps on a plane._

She didn’t realize she was still staring at him until Noah’s eyes met hers as they were sitting down to the meal.  Rachel suddenly felt exposed,  like he could hear her every thought.  She looked away, fiddling with a piece of hair, tucking it behind her blush-tinged ear.

_I suppose it’s not up to me. Not entirely, at least._

When she lifted her eyes again, though, he was still watching her, and she felt a wave of warmth rush through her.

_But if he means to me what I think he might mean to me, I’m going to try very hard not to mess it up._

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He’s living in the fucking Twilight Zone. That’s the only explanation for the fact that, right now, he’s sitting at his old kitchen table with the cracked plastic seats. With Becca. And Rachel Berry.  

And that earlier this week, his hands were all in Rachel’s panties and then she sucked his dick and then, damn, the shower, and then he dumped Quinn and then he flipped out on Rachel and she said fuck, like, a hundred times and even though she was pissed at him, it made him a little hard cause he likes it when she says fuck.

And now they’re eating dinner together and Bec is telling stories about him when he was younger and Rachel is all laughing and smiling and sparkly shit and every now and then she smiles at him and when she does it just makes something in him jump and what the _fuck_ is this life he is _living_.

Twilight fucking Zone.

And, man, his ma is gonna go all apeshit happy when she comes home and sees this.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Right. Fuck.

His mom’s not here.

That’s the really, _super_ shitty part about this all.

The Rachel part and the Chinese food and all the hot and sexy time all this week, all that is damn good, damn _fiiiiiiine_.

But his mom’s not here.

And not coming back.

She’d be so happy to see this all right now. So fucking happy ‘cause, yeah, Becca was right, his ma fucking loved the shit out of Rachel. They’d come home from temple and before she’d even drop her purse on the couch, his mom would hold his face with her hands and start in about that sweet Jewish girl Rachel Berry, “how pretty she is, Noah,” “what a perfect match she’d be for you, Noah,”  “Her fathers are just such wonderful men,” “One day, you’ll see, bubbeleh, you’ll see how good she is for you,” and, the kicker,  “oh, she is such a better girl than that Santana you’ve been hanging around with.” He would roll his eyes and tell her to, seriously, cut it out, but then, Ma would kiss him on the cheek and say, “I just want you to be happy, Noah.” He’d shake her off and then run upstairs to call Santana for a little somethin’ somethin’.  

He shoves a forkful of fried rice in his mouth, and starts to jiggle his knee under the table, maybe a little too emphatically. Bec gives him a questioning look when the table jostles, and he forces himself to stop.

He’s not about to say his ma was right.

But, ok, so maybe he’s definitely not saying she’s _wrong_ , either.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They were on the couch watching some absent minded reality television (“Oh my goodness, I love Chopped!” she had squealed when he passed through the Food Network during channel surfing. Her head was in his lap so it’s not like he was going to not stop on that cause, fuck, head. In. _Lap_ ). He was sitting up on the couch with his legs perched on the coffee table, while she was all curled up like a comma next to him. 

He’s basically zoned out on sweet and sour pork from dinner, and feels like one of those big lazy basset hound dogs that plop around all drunk-like.  Rachel is soft and snuggly on him and, fuck, he likes that, even without all the sexual shit it implies. She smells good and she feels good and, whatever.

“So, um,” Rachel hesitated, then started again. “When do you leave?”  She couldn’t see the look on his face, but she felt his leg tense and then relax, briefly, fleetingly.

“Tomorrow,” he replied, subdued. “My flight is tomorrow night.”

They were both quiet, the tv framing their silence with sizzles, clangs and claps.

_What is my next move?_ She ponders. _Should I...do I bring up the question of us, us in the face of both our departures?_

But before she could come up with a gameplan, he starts to talk again, his voice was low. “I’m not a dick, Rachel.”

She lifted her head up from his lap and looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Noah, I never thought you were,” She paused momentarily reconsidering. “Well, I mean, when you threw slushies in my face, that was...vicious, but --”

“No, I mean,” He sighed. “I mean.” He stops again and closes his eyes. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Ok…” she slowly replied. _What is he getting at here?_

“I broke up with Quinn,” he said. “I can’t...whatever this...I mean...I just…” _What the fuck am I trying to say? Jesus, spit it out, dude._

He can’t find the words. Well, maybe he can, but, fuck, no, he’ll just...

_It’s easier if I just..._  

So Puck leans forward and kisses her. His hand is flat against her back while his fingertips tug her in closer, closer, and Rachel’s eyes flutter, her lashes brushing against his cheek. She crawls into his lap, her knees resting on each side of him.

_It shouldn’t need to be all angst and drama_ , she thought. _But...but if that’s what it has to be, to actually, to be, then….ok, maybe then...ok._

 She’s shocked at how much of her life can turn around in the span of a few days. _If someone would have told me last week that this is who - and what - I’d be spending my nights with, and my days analyzing..._

_But maybe this has been long in coming._

_The more time I spend with him, the more I see Noah, and the more I fall._

_I wonder. I wonder if things had been different….if I had...what if I had given him a chance before? Or if we found a chance to spend more time….I mean….was this always there and I just didn’t notice?_

_I just want to know how he feels about this too._  

Rachel breaks the embrace. “Let’s go out,” she announces.

Puck’s confused. “Out? It’s 9:30.”

“So? You got a bedtime, Cinderella?” She gave him a teasing smile and there’s that jumpy shit that happens to him.

“Like...out to Dairy Queen or something?” _Fuck yeah, I could totally go for one of those blizzards_.

“No. No, let’s go...let’s go to a bar.”

“What?”

Rachel jumps up from his lap. “Since when does the great Noah Puckerman turn down an invitation  to go to a bar? It’s your last night off. I know you can’t barhop that often on base,”  She grins at him. “Things have been so…” she chooses her words carefully, thoughtfully. “...heavy around here, I think we should go out and have some fun. Blow off some steam.”

_Blow, eh?_

She shimmies over to him and takes his hands.”Maybe dance a little bit…”

“I don’t dance, Rach.”

“I remembered seeing that booty shake in Glee Club...come on Noah…” Rachel gives him the puppy eyes and he’s a goner. “Please?”

He likes the way _her_ booty shakes, so, ok, fine.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She’s driving, since he sold his truck before boot camp, and he feels like a tool sitting in the passenger seat of her white Prius. They stop at her dad’s apartment (“Be right back, just want to change!”) and she runs (and bounces and jiggles...hell yeah) upstairs and takes entirely too long. But then, she comes back out, her coat unbuttoned, and he can see this floaty lace black shirt thing on with tight curvy ass jeans and then, damn, there’re these knee high boots and, ok, hips and that ass and ohh-kay, yes, this will be _fiiiiine_.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_I want to have fun_ , she decided, when she was up in her bedroom, throwing her meager suitcase wardrobe around, thanking her lucky stars for bringing a pair of skinny jeans. _I want to just let loose and forget all of this pressure that I am putting on this situation._

_And perhaps this evening could lead to some sort of closure._

Rachel zips up her knee high black boots and examines herself in the mirror, fluffing her hair.

_Mmm, perhaps a sexual closure._

Her inner voice is much more honest lately. She spreads grape-flavored lipgloss on and adds a little more mascara, ignoring the impatient honk of her car outside.

_Fine. Be honest Rachel. You want, so very badly, to just do the dirty with Noah Puckerman._

She jogged back out to the Prius, flashing him a smile as she slid into the driver’s seat. His eyes run appreciatively over her body, and when he smirks at her, she just about rips her clothes off right then and there. Instead, Rachel buttons her coat up and puts the car into gear.

_My God, yes._

_So maybe a more...comfortable bar atmosphere will assist that._

There’s not exactly a happening bar scene in Lima, OH, so she drives past the coffee shops and that new “trendy” ( _aka, overly priced_ , she thought, crinkling her nose as she passes it) martini bar they just put in by the Breadstix. 

The Liberty Tavern was one of those stereotypical hole in the wall bars where the fanciest beer they serve is Coors Light and they have one of those mechanical bulls you could ride for $5. It’s certainly not a bar that Rachel would have chosen for a Girls Night Out (the clientele tend to be a little...coarse, in her opinion). In any other situation, Rachel would have completely foregone that scene for something a little more female friendly, but she knows Puck has frequented the place.

Also, they have a jukebox. And Rachel loves jukeboxes, because that means she gets to take charge of the setlist.

Rachel loves to be in charge.

As she pulls into the (surprisingly full) parking lot, she pep talks herself because, yes, she is still Rachel Berry. _No questions. No drama. Just let the night unfold._

She smiles brightly at her passenger. “Here!”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He’s curious as to how Rachel Berry knows of that honky tonk dive bar on the edge of Lima Heights, but when she puts the car in park, all he sees again are those black boots and if this is where she wants to go, ok. He’s been here, probably more often than he’s willing to admit, cause they never carded and, ok it was hella easy to get one of these chicks to give him a hummer in the mens room. Not that he ever needed any assistance but seriously.   

Puck figured she’d be more of a hipster type bar person, being all NYC and shit, or at least choose one of those bars downtown.

For a brief moment, he gets all self conscious. _Is she slumming with me or something? Fuck that noise, she ashamed of me?_

As soon as those thoughts cross his mind, he’s disgusted with himself.

_Jesus Christ, Puckerman. Who are you?_

So he follows her inside as she hops her little ass on a barstool. Puck curls his arm around her, resting a hand on her hip (because, damn she’s so fucking _cute_ ) and drops a $20 on the bar. “Whatcha want, babe?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Long Island iced tea.”

He’s surprised, to say the least. LIT, that’s hardcore for a little midget like her.  “Rachel, that’s --”

She tosses a defiant look at him. “I know what it is, Noah Puckerman, and that’s what I want.” 

Well ok then.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She needs some beer muscles. Liquor muscles. Whatever it is. It’s their last night.

_And maybe I want to finally have sex with Noah Puckerman.  And maybe I haven’t actually been waiting more than, what, a few days, really, but maybe I’ve also been waiting more like a few years, and, for that? I need some liquid courage._

_Like every other time before, every other time that we’ve gotten close, this is going to end abruptly and hastily.  I know it will.  I don’t want regrets._

_I don’t want it to end this time._

_Did I ever want it to?_

She downs half her drink in one gulp. The bar doesn’t exactly have a dance floor but that’s not going to stop her. Rachel wants to dance.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

This girl is cruising to get plastered and what the fuck for? 

And she’s going to be all grabby hands on him and he’s not going to want to say no and this _might_ be the time he doesn’t.

He hesitantly turns away from the bar counter to follow her.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She’s shimmied and shook and wiggled and twirled her way around him, and around approximately two more LITs. 

Puck’s not complaining. The way she rubs against him and slides up and down? Fuck _yes_.  He’s no Fred Astaire, but dancing is like sex, and he sure as shit knows his way around _that_ rodeo, no pun intended.  He can move his hips pretty damn well, and he’s just following her lead and that ass of hers is making it easy as fuck to grind against her.

And also? It’s like the jukebox _knows_ , ‘cause it keeps playing songs that aren’t all old school cracker country music. These are like, bump-and-grind tunes. There was some Maroon 5, that Bruno Mars song with the Jackson 5 vibe, and this one country song he really likes, about the chick in a hot tub.  Then he started thinking about Rachel in a stringy little bikini, so he pulled her closer and dipped her at the waist all “Dirty Dancing” style (so maybe he’s seen that movie before, shut up) and she squeaked, “Noah!” in this adorable-as-fuck voice and, fuck, he is in trouble.

He sees the flush in her cheeks when he spins her around during their fifth song in a row, her bright eyes, the giddy smile on her face, and he can’t help but smirk and wiggle his eyebrows at her. So his hands, his arms, they glide into places on her body, and he brings her into his hips, so she can feel exactly the effect her dancing is having on him.

He lowers his head to whisper in her ear. “Baby, you don’t even _know_ the things you are doing to me right now.” His breath against her neck sends shivers down her back.

And then she bites her lower lip and he knows and she knows, and _damn, does she know_ because those darkly lined eyes and thick lashes are total “fuck me eyes” and yeah. _Yeah.  We’re done here_.

He’s not sure he can hold out much longer. Or wants to. Well, he’s never _wanted_ to hold out, but, you know, he’s trying to be honorable and shit.

She giggles. “But I want to dance more, Noah,” and her begging? _Almost as much of a turn on as those fucking boots, for real._

“We’re done dancing here, sexy,” he raises his eyebrow. “I’m gonna go hit the bathroom and then. Home.”

She giggled again. “Ohhh, kay,” Rachel grins. “I’ll get my coat.”

While Puck goes to the restroom, Rachel heads back to the bar, in desperate need of an ice water for her alcohol parched throat. She lifts her hair up and fans herself.

Home. Her head is fuzzy, a combination of drinks, dancing, adrenaline, and desire. She recalls a line from a song they’ve sang before, in Glee, and it floats in her head: **Home is wherever I’m with you.**

Her dad had always said, “Drunkenness reveals what soberness conceals,” and maybe she’s had _just_ enough drinks to get herself honest, truly honest.

She’s in love with Noah Puckerman. She’s always been.

Rachel takes out her compact and lipgloss, when an arm slides around her waist, and an unfamiliar smell of cigarettes and scotch curls into her nostrils. “Hey there, good lookin’.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Fuck this shit. It’s getting old playing this, “well behaved” game.

He wants to have sex with Rachel.

He doesn’t want to fuck her, per se.

To be honest, he’s _never_ wanted to _fuck_ Rachel Berry.

After seeing Berry down that first Long Island Iced Tea, Puck made sure to limit himself to only one drink.  He can handle himself after a substantial amount of liquor, but apparently he needs to be his brain and Rachel’s brain, and that’s a lot of brain to be responsible for.

He’s thinking crystal clearly as he rinses his hands and leaves the bathroom.

_Don’t know where this is all going. But I’m not gonna fuck it up._

_You hear that, ma?_

_I’m not gonna fuck this up._

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

But then he walks back to the bar counter and sees this flannel-shirted asshole with his arms all around Rachel and whispering something into her ear and his fucking mouth is way too close to her neck and yeah, he wants to fuck something up alright. In about two strides, he’s reached the bar and grabs the guy by his shirt collar.

“Get the fuck away from her, douchebag,” he growls.

“Noah!” Rachel is astonished. In fact, her incredulity is pissing Puck off even more, because, fuck, what the fuck did she think he was going to do?

“You mean you want this shithead all over you?” He snaps at Rachel.

“Noah, don’t talk to me that way,” She hates this, “I am man, I protect you,” vibe. She is perfectly capable of handling situations herself.

“Hey, man, it’s a free country!” Flannel protests. “Chick can talk to whoever she wants, chill the fuck!” he shakes off Puck, and goes back to stand near (too fucking near) Rachel, leaning on the bar. “So, as I was saying, baby…”

“I said, leave, asshole.” Rachel could see Puck’s fingers curling into a fist and she grabs his arm and slides off of the stool.

“Puck!” Rachel  entreats, warningly.  “Puck, I can handle this myself, he wasn’t --”

In a flurry of activity, Puck shoves Flannel, Flannel pushes Puck back, and Puck raises a fist, but, thankfully, just in time the bartender is involved, pushing the two of them apart.

“Dude, the fuck,” Flannel shakes off and adjusts his shirt. “Jesus, I don’t see no label on her ass.”

Rachel glowers, because, ugh, all this _testosterone._ “That’s because I am no one’s property, and furthermore I am not a ‘chick’, nor a piece of real estate, and don’t you dare disrespect a woman by talking to her in such a demeaning manner--” 

The bartender raised his voice. “Cool it, all of you, before I have to call the cops.” He has one hand on the phone behind the bar, and the look on his face means business.

“Whatever, man, I’m leaving,” Flannel threw a nasty look at Puck, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m done here.” He throws a last, lecherous look at Rachel that makes her stomach curdle. “She’s hot, but not worth this bullshit.”

_Oh, you better leave, motherfucker_.  His hands are so tightly balled into fists and fuck, _what the fuck does this asshole even know, saying she’s not worth it. Does he even have eyeballs, seriously, the fuck?_

_Cool it, calm your shit, Puckerman._

So, fine, he won’t run after him and pummel his crap face in. But Noah Puckerman always gets the last word in a fight. “Fuck you, asshole,” he called out after him, and wraps his arm around Rachel’s waist, who shakes it off, pushing him away.

“Excuse me, Noah Puckerman!” Rachel is livid and her arms are flailing. “I do not appreciate the way you just…”

_Oh shit. She’s saying something and her voice has that high and shrill tone._

It’s just when he saw that asshole’s arm around her and all whispering in her ear and then it looked like she was giggling, and just.

Fuck.

He just doesn’t want anyone else’s hands on her, ok?

Fuck.

Fine. Fine.

So maybe he. Ok. Fine.

And maybe when he saw that happen at the bar, he thought about it happening when she goes back to New York.  Back to New York, where he’s _not_.

“Noah, are you even listening to me?!”

He likes how she calls him Noah. He doesn’t like when anyone else does. Quinn tried to once and then he called her Lucy, and she got real pissed, so that was the end of that. 

_Fuck, she’s still talking in that voice and I may have just fucked everything up. Fix this shit you shitted up, Puckerman._

Puck’s departure cuts Rachel off mid sentence. She sees him walk over to the jukebox, shove a dollar in and pound on some keys.

Rachel inflames even more. _How dare he walk away from me! How dare he act like a complete paleolithic imbecile! And I need to STOP finding his jaw-clenching so sexy. Get it together, Rachel Barbra Berry!_

She fumbles in her purse for her phone to call a cab. _I’m going home. My home. This is ridiculous, he is so utterly arrogant in thinking that I cannot defend myself._ So maybe that man was completely not her type, and, yes, she was _technically_ here _with_ Noah, but really, it’s not like she’s in a relationship with him. Because he refuses to talk about that.

_And I could have handled that guy if he got too close. Why, just before Noah intervened, I was getting ready to very politely show him my disinterest._

Her inner voice is torn between anger and reasoning. _That creep’s hand lingered on your behind even after you told him you weren’t interested though_.

_I would have been fine! I have mace! Noah did not have to come threaten his life and act as though I was some defenseless damsel in distress! If that’s all he thinks I am, then maybe I was wrong about --_

In the midst of her internal diatribe, Puck’s face appears before her, and he takes her hand, pulling her away from the bar counter. “Noah, I am absolutely disgusted by your behavior and --”

She is disarmed as he stops short and turns to face her, wrapping his arms around her waist, bringing her in close, holding her tightly.  The slow twang of a guitar and a piano float throughout the bar.

“And what exactly are you doing?” She’s trying to stand still and put her hands on her hips, but her attempts are futile, and he begins to sway her.

“Just shut up and dance with me,” he murmured.

He’s calm. Quiet. His jaw is relaxed, his tension is gone, and she sees Noah.

_Noah._

She starts to melt into him a little more with the music, and, finally succumbs, clasping her hands around the nape of his freshly shaven hairline. She closes her eyes and rests her head against his chest. He grazes his fingertips up and down her spine, one hand remaining still in the small of her back.  Rachel takes in a deep breath.

_Ok, fine. Perhaps I contribute my own fair share of drama to this._ She realizes. _And baggage._  

_Just tell me, Noah. Tell me what’s going on here, with us. Tell me if you feel the way I do in this entire thing. Practically an entire lifetime of emotions have shot straight through me in one week._

 The whole point of coming to a bar was to attempt to ignore the anxiety surrounding his impending departure tomorrow. She thought sex with him tonight would be enough closure for her. _I suppose I can’t be that type of girl._   

_And I suppose this can’t be that type of relationship._

She vaguely recognizes the song. It’s a Toby Keith song; her daddy has a soft spot for rip-your-heart-out country music.  She and Dad always teased him endlessly about his guilty pleasure, but truth is, Rachel loves the raw and honest emotion that flows through a good country song.

**There’s a different feeling ‘bout you tonight...s’got me thinking lots of crazy things**

It’s a familiar song, but she still can’t quite place it.

“Noah, you didn’t have to be so….I mean….I was handling it myself,” She quietly began, before he silenced her again, rubbing his hand up and down her back, and the warm breath in his whisper tickles her neck. 

“Shh.”

**You shouldn’t kiss me like this unless you mean it like that**

Oh. Ohhhhh. This song. She knows this song.

**We’ll be lost on this dance floor, spinning a round, and around, and around, and around…**

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

It was her junior year. Rachel had just found out about Finn and Santana being...she couldn’t even say it. 

Intimate.

She was so hurt by Finn losing his virginity to her, of all people, Santana, flipping Lopez. Finn was supposed to be hers, true, they hadn’t been together at that very moment in time, but they are now. At least, they were, until this disaster.

RachelandFinn are, were, a modern day fairy tale, and fairy tales have a happy ending.  Fairy tales don’t have your prince screwing your arch nemesis. Your _antithesis. My goodness, did he even ever love me? How could Finn swear his love to me and do that to….Santana?_

Sex should be accompanied by love. Sex should be with someone you do love.

_My God, does he love her?_

_He can’t love her. Can he? He’s supposed to love me, this isn’t the way things should be!_

She was so angry, so upset on her walk home from school, praying and hoping the house would be empty so that she could wallow in the unfairness of her life.  To her dismay, Rachel opened the door to see her daddy dusting to the beat of the stereo blasting throughout the living room.

Of course, as soon as he saw her tear stained, red face, he dropped the dust cloth and attended to her, and (parts of) her tale of heartbreak tumbled out as she hiccupped and cried on the couch. 

“How could he do that to me?” She asked painfully. “I thought he loved me. I was so happy, so happy that someone finally loved me back. He’s mine….he was supposed to be mine, the love of my life.”

There was a silence in the room as Rachel sniffled angrily and the stereo clicked, switching to the next song.

“Babydoll, there are lots of people who love you,” Daddy started. “You’re young, sweetheart, and even if Finn isn’t the end all, be all, there will be someone out there who will love you, someone who will put you above everyone and everything else.”

“Well it certainly doesn’t feel like it,” she muttered, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. Slow pianic melody filled the room, and Rachel’s breathing slowed as she tried to focus on the music to calm herself.

**You shouldn’t kiss me like this unless you mean it like that**

_Terrific,_ she thought bitterly. _A love song. The last thing I need to hear right now._ She leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and closed her eyes. _It’s true, the only man a girl can truly trust is her daddy._

_And her other dad_.

Finn was supposed to be her fairy tale. Rachel Berry always gets the solos, the awards, the medals. But never the guy. Even when things were finally looking up for her.

_Maybe I should just accept the fact that fame and fortune will be my spouse.  Maybe I should accept that there is no one for me, that will understand and love me_.

“I promise you, Rachel. I promise you, there is someone out there just. For. You.” Her daddy squeezed her hand and tapped her on her nose to punctuate his point, and she couldn’t help it, she let a (very small) smile blossom her face. 

_I hope you’re right, Daddy. I’m so lonely sometimes_.

He pulled her up by her hand. “Dance with me, babydoll, let’s dance that sadness away!” He spun her in time with the song and Rachel allowed a full grin.

**Spinning a round and around and around and around…**

“Trust me, my girl, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll find him.” Her dad winked. “Or her. Whomever it is. There’s someone out there for you. Love isn’t always neat and tidy, and neither is Prince Charming.”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


The song ended, and Rachel pulled away from Puck, staring. “What exactly was that?”

“What? I wanted to dance,” He replied, a little defensively.

“That wasn’t just a dance, Noah,” she said accusingly. “And that little scene beforehand? What was that, too?”

_Why am I angry? Why am I so mad right now?_

Puck sighed. “Rachel, I just.” He paused. “Can’t we just go home?”

_I’m done_ , she thought. _I’m done not knowing_.

She wordlessly handed him her keys.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The drive back to the Puckerman house was quiet.

_When Berry is quiet, shit’s about to go down._  

Sometimes, it’s good, sexy shit. 

Most of the time, though,  it’s talking about your feelings shit.

He braces himself for the latter.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He’s driving through downtown Lima when Rachel starts.

“Noah. We need to talk.”

_Fucking knew it was coming._

“‘kay. Talk.”

“Why did you pick that song?”

“What song?”

“ _You_ know what song,” She cocked her head at him. “ _That_ song. I know you chose it on the jukebox.”

“Just a song, Berry. Don’t mean nothing.” He tries to defend himself nonchalantly.

“You’re a liar.” Rachel narrowed her eyes.

“I saw you choosing songs on the jukebox too. I ain’t giving you the third degree.”

“That’s different. I chose fast songs.”

“So I wanted to dance a slow song with you. So?” 

“So you were completely irrational and borderline psychotic with that gentleman at the bar, and then you just happen to get the urge to dance with me to a song, a slow song in which the lyrics perfectly summarize this push-and-pull we have going on, and you expect me _no_ t to question your motives?” 

“Talk English.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Noah.”

He grimaced. “So I just don’t like when another guy has his hands all on you, ok? So sue me!”

“You were jealous.” Rachel pointed at Puck.

“Jealous? Really, Rachel.” He scoffed. _Ok, fine, so I was_.

“But you know what, Noah? You’re not allowed to be jealous!”

He doesn’t respond, but jerks the wheel and takes a turn a little too sharply.

She turned in the seat and glares at him. _I’m done with this game_. “You’re not allowed to be jealous until we have the conversation we’ve been dodging all damn week!”

He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “And _what_ conversation is that?” 

“Why won’t you have sex with me.” It was a statement. She already knew the answer; she wanted, needed, him to say it.

“Seriously, Rachel? That? We fucking _talked_ about that!”

“No we didn’t.”

“Hello, crazy, a few hours ago?”

“That wasn’t good enough.” Rachel folded her arms and flopped back in her seat. She saw Puck tighten his jaw and swallow, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

“What the fuck, you want me to be an encyclopedia or something?”

“What’s stopping you? From all of this. From going ahead and actually saying and doing how you feel? Because, I don’t know, Noah, we get close, so close, and you pull away at the last moment and I can’t gauge how you feel about me! And you do these things to me and my body, and you kiss me like there’s something...you just...you don’t say anything and I can’t exactly gather your intentions from merely actions!”

“You’re not exactly an open fucking book, yourself, Berry. Maybe not all of us can use big fat words like you do all the damn time.”

“Don’t turn this around on me!”

He stops at a red light and throws his arms in the air.“I told you in my room before! What more do you want from me?”

“What I want from you is to know. What. Exactly. Is. Stopping you.” Her voice turns low, pleading with him, and he can’t feign indifference any longer. 

“You, all right! You’re stopping me! It’s you! I don’t want it to just be a random one and done fuck, ok! Is that what you want to hear?!” His words just come pouring out all at once, like a flood.

“I’m always your fucking mistake, Rachel. Every damn time. And I know if we have sex, it’s going to turn into another one of your ‘mistakes’,” He makes finger quotes. “And, fuck it, I don’t want to be a mistake this time!” His voice is tinged with anger and an edge of… 

_Desperation? Is that desperation I’m hearing in his voice? Maybe this is...maybe he feels..._

She remains wide eyed and silent as he continues. “And you know what?” He points to her, ignoring the green light and honking cars behind them. “I don’t fucking think you want it to be a mistake this time, either. You don’t exactly look at me like a fucking nun, Rachel, but I don’t see you professing any shit.

“I don’t want no other guy to be talking to you. I don’t want no other guy to even fucking look at you. I want to talk to you. I want to look at you. I want to touch you and I want to hold you. And I don’t want to go back to Texas tomorrow with another fucking mistake, again, this time because, fuck, I’m not a dick and I’m trying to not. Fuck. This. Up.”

The cars are swerving past them now, middle fingers and obscene gestures flashing in the windows. The honking horns continue.

“Um,” Rachel starts out timidly, quietly. “Um. The light’s…”

He shoves his foot on the gas and the car lurches forward. “I get angry, ok? I’m not good at any of this shit and I just get angry and my words come out and I’m just not good at fucking words, ok?” 

_Oh. Oh my. Ok._

_Ok._

“And I just broke up with Quinn, and, fuck, I don’t miss her or regret that shit but, seriously, it’s not supposed to happen, shit’s not supposed to happen this way. My mom’s supposed to be alive and all this week, just, God! Fuck!” He pounded the steering wheel again.

She knows she has to say something. He just poured his heart out to her, essentially, in his own Noah Puckerman way.

But before she can say anything, he’s turning into the driveway.  Puck gives her one last, long look after putting the gear shift into park. “And, fine, so maybe I did know that song and maybe I did choose it on purpose, so whatever, think whatever you fucking _think_.” He throws the car door open and stalks out.

In a flash, the lyrics shoot through her mind.

**When you kiss me like this**   
**I think you mean it like that**   
**If you do baby, kiss me again**

He's at the front door fumbling with his keys. _This is why I don't do fucking words and feelings and shit._  He slid his key into the lock, and it won’t turn.  F _an-fucking-tastic._ He pounds his fist against the door. _I can’t help myself and can’t fucking shut up._

_And there you go, ma_ , he thought miserably, angrily. _There’s your Puck, fucking things up again_. He leans his forehead against the door and sighs. _And now the fucking key is stuck in the damn lock_. 

Someone grabs him and spins him around, shoving his shoulders against the closed door. Rachel presses her lips against his, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt. She's kissing him, hard, insistent, and he can feel her chest heaving against him. She pulls away and looks him right in the eyes, a determined focus on her face as she enunciated every word.

“You are. Most certainly. Not. A mistake, Noah Puckerman.”

Rachel wraps her arms around him tightly and starts kissing him again.

“I do mean it, Noah, I do, I do,” She’s whispering it over and over, breathing it into his mouth. “So not a mistake, so very much not a mistake...”

Oh. Ok. So maybe he didn’t fuck this one up.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_If my life were a movie_ , Rachel thinks, _now would be the part where Noah scoops me up in his arms and carries me into his room to make passionate love to me._

But life’s not a movie.

Instead, they’re still wrapped around each other, all lips and tongues and hands and sighs, when the door suddenly opens from the other side, and Puck topples into the doorway, Rachel on top of him. 

“Fuck me!” Puck swears, grimacing, and Rachel rolls off of him. 

“Well, hey there, lovebirds,” Becca’s voice comes from above them. “Thought I heard you knock." 

“Jesus, Bec!” Puck rubs his back. “I didn’t knock, fuck!”

“Oh. Well. Sorry, I guess,” She shrugged. “See ya.” Becca turned away and walked up the stairs.

“Shit. God, that hurt like a motherfucker,” Puck groaned again. “Rachel, you ok?”

Most of her fall was broken by his (delicious) body, so she wasn’t in too much pain. “I’m fine. Are you…?”

“You’re like, negative pounds, baby,” he replied. “It hurt but. I’ll live.” He stretched and cracked his back, still sitting on the floor. Rachel stood over him, feeling self conscious, and scratched the back of her calf with the toe of her boot.

“So, um.” She stammered. _What is it about this boy that makes me so nervous_?

Puck hopped up. “No um. Upstairs. Now.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs. “I want to hear more about how not a mistake I am.” He smirked at her and raised his eyebrow. “Naked, of course.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe it was that song from the jukebox."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I normally post "parts" that have around 6k words, but I felt this bad boy deserved its own standalone part/chapter. After all, it's what we've all been waiting for, haha! Enjoy, loves!

When Rachel was younger, her dad had a client who owned a fleet of small motor yachts. Every year on the Fourth of July, this client would invite the all the Berrys down to New York City to float around the East River on one of the boats and see the Macy’s fireworks up close and personal (“How did they get clearance from the Coast Guard for that, Dad?” “Very rich people, honey.”). Since, obviously, it was a very expensive jaunt for just a long weekend, they only went one year, when Rachel was 13.

It was complete and utter magic.

They had spent the whole afternoon sailing around the East River.  Rachel basked in the hot sun, enjoying the warmth on her skin, the aroma of the sea air and the gentle saltwater spray on her face as the yacht jumped wave after wave.  She loved being on the water and seeing the city, _her_ city (because, of course, at age 13, Rachel knew that New York City was going to be hers one day) from an atypical viewpoint, yet still live and in person. The normally intimidating hustle and bustle of New York was transformed into a peaceful view from the waters, yet, she was still “a part of it, New York, New York,” like Frank Sinatra crooned.

And then...the _nighttime_.

The sky would light up over and over again, raining with sparkles, bursting with color, and Rachel felt as though each individual ribbon of glitter was trickling down on her and her alone. Every explosion sent Rachel’s belly into a tailspin of delicious excitement and fervor; she felt the rumbles down to her toes. She reveled in the contrast of the moment - she felt the anchored boat lazily loll back and forth, but her body was internally rocketed by the sounds and sights of the fireworks above her.

It was an event she would hold on to long after the last drops had disintegrated on the water.  How the entire evening had ignited all of her senses, all at once - she’d never thought such an experience could exist, let alone happen to her.

And even less, did she think such an experience could happen to her again.

Until she followed Noah Puckerman to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it was the Long Island Iced Teas. Maybe it was the poetry of this being their “last night.” Maybe it was the honesty of the evening.

Maybe it was that song from the jukebox.

It seemed to Rachel that every time they had “hooked up” (she hated that term, but, unfortunately, it _was_ appropriate), it felt like….like a stopwatch was going to go off, that one of them was going to jump back into reality and realize what was happening, _who_ was happening, and stop the momentum.

Tonight was different.

When he turned around to face her after closing his door, gazing at her with hungry eyes and a half smirk, she felt a ripple surge down to her toes even before he encircled his arms around her. Puck began to kiss her cheek, her ear, her neck, and she slowly sucked in a deep breath, a lazy smile on her face.

They stood there, in the middle of the room, no imminence, as Puck cradled her face in his hands.

_This is the Noah_ , she thought. _My Noah_.

There was no rush. There was no alarm that would awaken them. For the first time, there didn’t need to be.

_It’s as if the world has finally given us its blessing_ , she thought.

_Serendipity._

* * *

 

_It’s like, fuck, finally_. Finally she’s not his mistake, finally he’s not hers, and there’s no Quinn, no Finn, no bullshit to get in the way and he is going to take his damn time exploring and devouring every square inch of her because, fuck.

_Finally._

He didn’t realize how long he’d really been waiting.

_But seriously. Finally._

 

* * *

 

He loved that black lace shirt and all, but he loves it even more on the floor. So he breaks their kiss, and Rachel shivers as his fingertips graze over the inner side of her arms when he pulls the shirt over her head. Puck moves to nibble the skin of her bare shoulder, curving his lips up and over to her collarbone, and Rachel exhales.

She slides her hands up and down his biceps, the cut ridges of his forearms as he holds her hips steady, all while working his lips on her neck. Rachel’s legs are about to give out ( _and just over some kissing, no less_ , she dazedly thinks), so she backs herself onto his bed and he crawls to lean over her.

“So,” he kisses her neck, “Fucking”, he moves up to below her earlobe, “Hot.” He whispers the last word into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine.

Rachel is immobile ( _again, from just a kiss!_ She’s astounded. _Rachel, imagine what’s going to happen when…_ ). Puck pushes himself up onto his knees, straddling her, and pulls his t shirt over his head. She goes to reach for him, to pull him in, but he catches them, intertwines his fingers with hers and pushes their clasped hands against the pillow. “No, babe,” he whispered. “Just wanna kiss you. More.” He holds her hands above her head while moving his mouth back to her lips.

_Ok. Ok, yes._

_Yes, yes, yeeeeeeeeeeees._

 

* * *

 

 

She’s laying there in this black stringy top thing and those jeans still, and he doesn’t even see a whole lot of skin and she’s the most fucking beautiful thing he has ever seen God damn.

Puck’s seen her in tank tops and jeans before. It’s not like this is some sacred Rachel Berry ground he is viewing for the first time.

But at the same time?

It’s different now.

And he kind of is seeing something for the first time and fuck.

_She’s just so fucking. Damn._

 

* * *

 

Rachel _needs_ her arms around him. She needs to touch him, to feel him more than his hands, she wants his body against hers. She breaks free of his fingers and pulls him down on top of her. Puck can feel her breaths heaving in and out, and before he lowers himself completely on top of her, he peels her camisole off to reveal…

Nothing.

She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath the camisole.

“Fuck,” he swears in a low voice. “God damn, baby. You are just…”

She tugs him down to her again, and they are chest to chest and now, now he wants to move fast because there’s all this Rachel Berry under him and he needs it all now, all at once.

But at the same time, he wants to just.

Savor it. Savor her. Savor all of this.

Slowly.

* * *

 

He flicks his tongue across her nipple and she arches her back into him, pushing herself into him, and, Jesus, they’re both still wearing pants and his hard-on is just fucking _insane_ right now.

He can talk himself down from an erection, he can make himself last, but damn this is just... _damn_.

This isn’t a, “I’m 13 and gonna blow my load cause, look, boobies,” kind of thing.

He’s at second fucking base and it’s as good as an orgasm already.

He starts to work on her other breast with his hand, while attending to the first one with nibbles, pausing to blow softly on the spots he is lapping at. Back when they first started making out, as teenagers, Puck learned that Rachel totally gets off on opposites like that. Hot then cold, soft touch, then rough, and he filed that information away (and maybe used it in his spank bank a few times) (fine, maybe more than a few).

“Oh Noah, oh Noah, oh Noahhhhh….”

And, damn, he _loves_ how she calls him Noah.

* * *

 

Rachel is _thisclose_ to climaxing right then and there with just his mouth on her chest . “Please,” she pants breathlessly, “Noah, please…”

“Please what, sexy? Tell me,” he looks up and his eyes shoot straight through her. “What do you want?”

“Please oh please, pants off, oh God, please…”

He kneels up and hooks his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, sliding his thumbs to span her waist, moving his hands behind her, cupping her rear. “These pants, baby? You want...these pants?” He’s teasing her, taunting her, and it’s making her wet, wet, and wetter.

“Noah, oh God, please, oh Noah,” she’s moaning.

He flicks his thumb and forefinger around the button fly and slowly pulls the zipper down. His hands still on her hips and his fingers stretch to caress her rear, again, and his forearms push the jeans down her legs.

* * *

 

Holy fuck, she’s got satin lace black panties on. Fuck.

Sweet mother of God.

“Baby, you are a fucking gorgeous. Work. Of _fucking art_.”

* * *

 

She loves how he is taking charge of her. She does. But if she doesn’t get her hands on him, touching him, feeling his skin under her fingers soon...

And he needs to be out of those pants. _Now_.

Rachel takes a deep breath and while Noah is leaning back, admiring her, she takes him by surprise, pulls him down and rolls _him_ over on his back. Now Rachel is the one straddling, and she leans back on his thighs and slides her body up and down his. She feels his hands fit into the curve of each of her hips and she scoots up to meet his mouth with hers, so her knees are on either side of his chest, her core flush against his torso while she dances her fingertips over his ( _oh, so sharp and sexy jawline, I love that jaw_ ), and now Puck is the one moaning. “Oh God, babe, I can feel your wetness through your panties,” he murmurs into her mouth as she swirls her tongue around his. “Baby, you are so hot, you are just...mmmm, Rachel….”

She kisses her way slowly down his body, neck, shoulders, arms, chest, her fingers skating over his hard abdomen, pausing briefly at the waist of his jeans. “Noah…”

“Oh God, baby, yes, yes, _yes_.”

Don’t need to tell her twice. She pulls the jeans down in one foul swoop and, _Oh goodness, tight black boxer briefs_ and she is, once again, astounded by him.

She’s seen it before. But this, tonight? It’s all just….different somehow.

_He’s fucking magnificent_ , she thinks unabashedly. When he cocks a brow at her, she realizes she’s said it aloud, but she’s just too worked up to care.

* * *

 

She called him fucking magnificent. _She didn’t know the half of fucking magnificent. Not unless she’d seen herself on the verge of orgasm._

There are so many things he wants to do to her. So many things with his mouth, his hands.

He doesn’t want to rush.

And they have time, now. They have time. _And for once a fucking future maybe_ , he thinks, surprised at how easy _that_ thought flowed out of him.

But right now, he really wants...but at the same time he wants to wait and...but he really needs...

“Noah,” Rachel whispers, crawling forward to him, stretching her tiny frame out on top of his. “Noah, I -- please, I need you inside me, now. Now.”

Yes.

Yes, _that’s_ what he needs.

 

* * *

 

She knows he can bring her to the brink, and over it, again and again. He’s certainly proven that to her many a time ( _and many a time more_ , she hopes). And she knows she has the same power over him, and she has tricks in her back pocket that she plans on using with him.

But there’s no rush for that now.

And she doesn’t feel like she has to smash a gamut of sexual positions and licks and tickles and touches into one evening.

Because they finally. Don’t. Have. To rush.

They have time.

He leans up to meet her lips, and she slides underneath him.

* * *

 

He’s used to asking the girl, “Are you sure?’ right before “that moment.” With Quinn, with almost any chick, he’s learned to give them an “out”, if they need it. It clears his conscience, so he’s not forcing anyone to do anything.

For the first time, like, ever?

Rachel asks _him_. First.

“Noah,” she places her hands on either side of his face, and looks into his hazel eyes. “Noah. Are you sure?”

_Fuck yes_. He’s never been any surer of anything in his entire life.

One elbow propping him up above her, he reaches into his bedside table. “Condom.”

“And pill.”

“Rach, baby, are _you_ sure?”

“Oh, Noah, so, so, _so_ sure.” She pulls him down to her.

* * *

 

And it’s fireworks and explosions and flames and the salty sweet taste of sweat and the peaceful tranquility juxtaposed with the waves of pleasure careening through her.

And it’s perfect.

So, so, _so perfect_. 

* * *

 

If he knew that _this_ was what he had been waiting for? 

_I would’ve waited 3 fucking lifetimes_.

_And then some._

_For that._

_And her._

  
  
  



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